


Tupelo (Black Rain Come Down)

by sebastianL (felix_atticus)



Category: Preacher (Comics), Preacher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Blasphemy, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Sexual Content, Trans Character, gender swap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-08 22:50:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 63,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7776733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felix_atticus/pseuds/sebastianL
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years ago, he left the love of his life with a promise to never look back. Apparently some promises are made to broken, and some aren't--like 'until the end of the world.'<br/>In which Tupelo O'Hare deals with inept criminals, bigotry, stormy weather, and true love, all to the soundtrack of Nick Cave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This world is full of danger

**Author's Note:**

> I've loved Preacher since I was a sophomore in university, when a particularly savvy guy on my floor said, "You've never read comics?" and proceeded to school me. The Invisibles, Scott Pilgrim, Arkham Asylum, Sandman, and the twin pillars of Transmetropolitan and Preacher. I don't know that anything has influenced my writing as much as those two comics, and I still re-read the entire runs at least once a year.  
> However, Transmet will never (and I mean never) be adapted for the screen and Preacher, after years of disappointing rumors, finally was. Even better, it was great. And one problem that I had with the books--Jesse's treatment of Tulip as fragile, maybe even less of an equal because she was a woman--was completely solved, because Ruth Negga's Tulip O'Hare was an unabashed bad ass and Jesse was the broken down preacher we meet for only a few minutes at the start of the books. The show took one of the few things I hated about this comic I loved and beat it into submission.  
> So while I've filled in some of the background holes with parts of the comic, the character I've written here is absolutely a gender swapped version of the O'Hare we get on the show, as opposed to the books.  
> If you've followed me over from the MCU stories I've done, fair warning--this world is very different and has a lot more hard edges. If you have any issue with blasphemy whatsoever, I advise you to abandon ship now, and I'll see you on the next fic. For folks who have seen the show or read the comics, you know about the level of ugly to expect. A racial epithet is used once, and transphobic and homophobic slurs are used several times. Also, if you have a problem with trans bodies, what are you even doing here?  
> Other than that, I think I've kept you long enough. I give you Tupelo O'Hare in all his glory.

The beat fades into another song, and Tupelo tosses back a third shot, slapping his hand down on the bar a few times. “That’s my jam!” he yells over the music. He tosses the bartender a sly smile, one that’s returned, and pushes himself away, back into the crowd, slim hips undulating as he slips amongst the warm, slithering bodies.

            Closing his eyes, he ignores everything but the music for a moment. It’s so loud that the bass is shivering in his chest. He blocks out the world, completely alone in the crowd. His arms rise above his head as he twists and writhes with the rhythm. There’s nothing but this—and this is pretty goddamn good.

            Saturday night, three shots of whiskey, in the middle of a crowd of gorgeous men, music too loud for most to think. Hell, he’d do this for free.

            When he opens his eyes, he looks to the lights overhead. The bar’s gone red, the occasional splash of blue. All these bodies and the smell of sweat in the red light, it must be the first stop on the road to hell. Apparently the bit about good intentions may have been overrated.

            He turns, and sees the guy studying him. He’s got a good six inches on Tupelo, and probably sixty pounds of muscle too. Brown hair cut short, face clean shaven. Not exactly Tupelo’s type—he likes his men a little rougher around the edges.

            Tupelo smiles at him, turning his back.

            He’s dressed to kill tonight. Well, he is most days, but this time he really went the extra mile. Tight green jeans, a little blue top under a linen vest. He got his hair cut, so that the back and sides of his head are shaved right to the scalp, leaving his curls silky and wild on top. Goatee very neatly sculpted, to the point where he was plucking hairs out while eye to eye with the bathroom mirror.

            The only concession he’s made are his Docs. He just bought new ones—they’re patterned like china plates, and damned if they aren’t some of the prettiest things he’s ever seen—but he’s wearing the black shorties, shined up real nice.

            He’s here to pick up, but a man has to be comfortable.

            A hand slip around his waist, pulling him back against a flat body, rigid with muscle. Tupelo knows it’s him. He doesn’t have to look. He just knows.

            He grinds back against him, a private smile on his mouth.

           

“How come I never seen _you_ here before?”

            It’s the first thing the brunette says when they collapse against the bar half an hour later. Tupelo leans back on it with his elbows, neck going slimy with cooling sweat. He fans himself, and shrugs.

            “Guess you weren’t looking too hard.”

            The brunette has a smile that only thousands of dollars in orthodontics could purchase. Everything about him is carefully obsessed over and reeks of artifice. The shirt is just a t-shirt, but Tupelo can tell it costs about a hundred dollars from surreptitiously lifting the collar. The man smells of body spray, not cologne.

            “Don’t have to look too hard to see you.”

            “Not unless you’re _blind_ ,” Tupelo says tartly, and the brunette drops his head, chuckling. Showing off those expensive teeth.

            He tilts his head at Tupelo, dimple in his right cheek that probably opens a lot of doors. “I’m Brian.”

            “I’m Nicky,” Tupelo replies.

            “Well, Nicky—you’re a real tease, you know that?”

            He points to himself. “Me? A tease? Now what gave you that impression?”

            Shrugging, Brian moves closer. “I dunno—could have something to do with the fact that you had your hand down my pants in front of all those nice people.”

            Tupelo leans over, arching a brow. “Them?” he asks incredulously. “They’re nice people?”

            “How about you wouldn’t let me return the favour?”

            He leans closer, and Tupelo inches away, grinning crookedly. “Just because you go in for that exhibitionist shit doesn’t mean I do the same.”

            Shaking his head, Brian says with respect, “Fucking _tease_.”

            Shrugging, Tupelo responds, “Nope. I don’t tease. I give—previews of coming attractions.”

            Bending towards Tupelo, Brian’s eyes rake in his face. Tupelo knows it’s a good face. He’s got almond shaped brown eyes, good cheekbones, full lips, and his skin’s pretty light thanks to mixed ancestry. The last is sometimes a matter of regret. He’s seen pictures of his mother, and she was the most beautiful woman Tupelo’s ever seen, and certainly was not light skinned. He’s got a good face, but he doesn’t look like either of his parents.

            “How many of those I gotta sit through before I get to the main feature?” Brian murmurs, barely above the music.

            Tupelo makes like he’s considering him. Eyes travel from the carefully mussed hair all the way down to loafers. Loafers, saints save us. He crosses his arms. “I got standards. I ain’t fucking you in the bathroom of no bar. Especially not this one.”

            “Don’t know that I got time for high maintenance,” Brian comes back, pretending like he’s not interested. Bullshit he’s not.

            “I’m not high maintenance. I’m just worth the hassle.”

            Brian bites the side of his mouth, then shucks his head back over his shoulder. “My place isn’t too far from here.”

            “Hmm—“ Tupelo narrows his eyes. “Am I stupid enough to go home with some strange white boy, just because he looks nice in tight jeans?”

            “Yes,” Brian says immediately, and Tupelo laughs. “Yes, you’re definitely that stupid.”

            Rolling his shoulders, Tupelo gives him a glance, then nods. “What the hell,” he says, straightening. “I guess life’s short.”

            As Brian turns, Tupelo stretches his arms over his head, and gives his back a crack.

 

He walks alongside Brian, away from the brightly lit streets to places darker and far less tread. He smiles and makes small talk, flirtations that roll off his tongue easier than breathing. Flexing his hands, he pulls his arms behind his back, one, then the other, when Brian’s not looking.

            Best to limber up.

            Tupelo doesn’t come to this side of town much. He’s never been to that bar before. There’s a place closer to his apartment, where all they play are classic blues, and the drinks sure as hell aren’t the price of a kidney.

            It doesn’t even smell the same over here. Maybe that’s because his apartment looks out over the back alley, and he’s a little more acquainted with the odor of trash than he’d care to admit. These streets smell like asphalt, like they wouldn’t even know what to do at the sight of a tree.

            “So,” says Brian, and Tupelo sighs internally, though he keeps a game face. “How about another one of those previews?”

            “Told you, I’m not an exhibitionist.”

            “The hell you’re not,” Brian laughs, tugging him closer by the wrist. Tupelo goes willingly, thinking he’s got the situation in hand. Brian’s stepping backwards, towards an alley, and Tupelo thinks, _well, there’s a terrible idea_.

            He digs in his heels. “You said you had a place.”

            “I do, baby. I just want—“ He puts a hand to Tupelo’s face, and Tupelo looks up at those blue eyes. He’s always preferred brown. The kind of brown that looks a bit gold, if you get it in the right light. Brian leans down, tongue flicking out. Obvious in his want. “A little taste.”

            Tupelo pushes himself up onto his toes, but keeps his arms down at his sides. There’s no one around, and that’s the only reason the brunette’s being so bold. Either that or he’s an idiot. Maybe they’re in Austin, but it’s still the South. Tupelo was raised in a small town, and he’s no fool.

            The man kisses wet right from the start. Tupelo isn’t impressed, but he’s not here to be critique the man’s make out skills. He leans up into it, letting the man assault his mouth—which Christ knows, has been put to much better use than this—as Brian reaches a hand down his side.

            _Don’t_ , Tupelo wants to warn him. _Don’t do it_.

            Brian lets him go, and Tupelo breathes easy for a second. But then the man leans in to kiss again, and he grabs Tupelo by the dick. Just _grabs_ , without so much as more than seven seconds of foreplay. Whoever schooled this man should be ashamed.

            _Moment of truth_ , he thinks.

            That moment lasts about a second, as Brian freezes. He looks down, and Tupelo takes a deep breath, bracing himself.

            “What the fuck is this?” Brian sputters. His face has gone from charming to ugly in record time. Veins bulge in his neck, and he steps further into Tupelo’s space, voice raising. “What are you pulling, you tranny n—“

            Tupelo punches him in the throat, cutting the word off before it can fully pass his lips. When Brian’s eyes bulge, he grabs him and knees him in the balls with a swift upward thrust. Then, because he’s pissed, he punches the man twice more in the throat, fierce jabs that send Brian falling backwards.

            The man drops like a tree that’s been felled, grabbing his throat and rolling from side to side, knees protectively drawn up.

            Tupelo stands over him a second, then lets out a disgruntled sigh. “Well, shit.” He puts his hands on his hips, glancing around to make sure they’re still alone. Yep. Everyone is either at home or out on the main streets, taking in the music, the life of the place. Saturday, after all—what better time to pretend real life doesn’t start again for most come Monday? Besides, the tourists are out in force on Saturdays too. The young ones flock to Austin. Wanting to experience Texas without the shittiness typically associated with it. Satisfied that they won’t be interrupted, Tupelo returns his attention to the matter at hand. Shaking his head, Tupelo regards Brian’s twisting body for a moment. “You have fucked up my plans, son.”

            He reaches down, grabbing him by the top of the boots. The man’s way bigger than him, so he has to drag him into the alley. Tupelo drops him behind a dumpster. Brian’s still wheezing, unable to get up. Tupelo wonders if he broke something in the guy’s throat.

            Just to be on the safe side, he stomps on his ribs. Brian lets out a sound much like air escaping a helium balloon. Yeah, he’s not going anywhere for at least a few minutes.

            Tupelo crouches down, emptying the man’s pockets. Phone, a slim little wallet with some credit cards—keys. _There we go_. Tupelo steps back, flipping through the wallet. He pulls out the man’s driver’s license, having to squint in the dark to see his address.

            Lifting his head, he looks around. Yeah, they’re about two blocks away.

            Closing it up, he pockets everything for himself. He doesn’t mean to keep it—he’ll toss it all when he gets far enough. He just wants the man at a further disadvantage. Tupelo glances about, taking in his surroundings. He tilts his head. Now there’s a thought. Someone’s left a concrete block by the back door. Probably to hold it open while they catch a smoke. Tupelo walks over, and picks it up. Heavy. That’d definitely do some damage.

            Returning to Brian, he says with a smile, “Now, what was it you were calling me, Brian? Tranny’s bad enough, not that I really give a shit. But what were you _about_ to call me? Started with an N. Was it ‘nice guy’? I really want to believe it was ‘nice guy,’ Brian, especially since I could brain you with this concrete block, and you don’t seem to be in a position to stop me.” Brian stares up at him with wide, frightened eyes. Tupelo can’t help his grin. He loves it when they look like this. “Were you going to call me ‘nice guy’? Nod if you were, and know that I really want to believe you.”

            Brian nods emphatically.

            Tupelo nods a little too. “Good. Now—so I don’t have to destroy your whole goddamn apartment, where’s the lock box?”

            After a second, Brian’s eyes go mean again.

            His gaze quickly returns to terrifed when Tupelo raises the block a few inches. “Remember—tranny nice guy, power of life and death.” Steel infusing his voice, he drops the smile. “Where’s the lock box?”

            Brian gulps in a little sip of air, and answers, “Under—kitchen sink.”

            Tupelo lowers the block. “Now see? Wasn’t that easier than throwing a conniption about my gender identity?” He drops the block next to Brian’s head, and the man yelps. He’s still clutching his balls, which admittedly makes Tupelo smirk.

            Then he kicks his boot across Brian’s face, breaking his nose and knocking him out cold.

            Shaking his head, Tupelo says as he walks away, “And don’t go grabbing a man’s bits without asking first. That’s just manners.”

 

Two hours later, Tupelo’s walking up the stairs to his apartment. He’s tired, and all he wants is about twelve hours of sleep.

            He has the lock box under his left arm. It was exactly where Brian said it would be, which doesn’t exactly blow Tupelo’s hair back. The man didn’t strike him as being particularly brave looking. Tupelo would have lied. He’d have said he didn’t have it, at least until bones started breaking, then he would have lied about where to find the thing.

            Not that Tupelo cares about the box. He has no idea what’s inside, and he doesn’t need to know. Five thousand to find it, with an extra thousand thrown in if he could have it done by the 14th. Well, it’s the 12th, so he’s looking at six thousand, and all just for finding a box.

            When he reaches the third floor, he sighs. “How the hell did you get in here?” he asks, walking down the fluorescent lit hall. The one eyed alleycat just hisses at him, sitting patiently by his door.

            Tupelo grimaces at him, pulling out his keys. The cat’s orange and scraggly. Tupelo tried to give it a bath once, but three months later and his wound’s just healed into a fat little scar.

            He unlocks the door, and raises a brow at the cat. “I suppose,” he says, and opens the apartment. The cat shoots inside. Tupelo blows out a breath, stepping into the dark apartment. “That’s my problem. Too tender hearted.”

            He tosses the box aside without much regard for whatever might be inside, then bends over to unlace his boots. Kicking them off, he pulls out his phone and grabs the box from the ground, crossing the apartment. He turns on the lamp by his bedside, bringing a little light to the place.

            The apartment is small, but it suits his needs. It’s not like he has friends or a boyfriend or much in the way of connections. He only has himself to take care of. It’s a bachelor with a green fridge, and he thinks in his heart of hearts that might be why he chose the place, besides the decent rent. The rent’s amazing, actually, for this city. But really—he loves that green fridge.

            He slips into the bathroom, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand. Tupelo perches on the side of the bathtub—a terrible rose colour that he gets a kick out of—and messages Dany. ‘Got it. Where’s my money?’

            He props up his head. He doesn’t even think he’s got it in him to take a shower. Nope. He’s just going to flop onto his bed and be done with it.

            His phone buzzes, and he looks at the message. ‘Is 1 in teh fckn mrng. Tmrrw @ 4. Go away.’

            Tupelo smirks a little. He’s half tempted to call her, just to fuck with her, but that’s no way to treat Dany. She’s done well by him, for a long time.

            Pushing himself up, he shoves his phone into his back pocket, and goes to the toilet. He lifts the cover off the back, setting it aside with a clank. After considering it for a moment, he decides that should work fine. He picks up the lock box. It’s not long—maybe eight inches, and five across. Tupelo holds it up to his ear and shakes. He can’t really hear much, just the faintest of rustling. Whatever’s in there is packed tight.

            None of his business. He was paid specifically not to open it, and the less he knows, the harder it is for him to be indicted. Tupelo takes out the plastic bag he keeps behind the toilet for these cases and wraps it around the lock box. He ties it up tight, then puts the box in the tank. That done, he puts the cover back on.

            Tupelo strolls out into the apartment, looking for the cat. He hasn’t named it, because it’s not his pet. And if he names it, he’ll be responsible for the damn thing, and that simply will not be happening.

            Going to the kitchen cupboard, he pulls out a little can of tuna. The ones you just peel the top off and can eat right out of. He puts it down on the ground for the alleycat, saying, “That’s all you’re getting. You can show your gratitude by not pissing on the carpet this time.” He hears the cat moving around, but leaves him to his own devices.

            Tupelo sheds his vest, giving it a sniff. Ah, it’s fine. He hangs that up in the closet, then hops around as he pulls off his socks. Those go in the hamper. Wriggling out of his tight jeans, he lifts them up, then pauses.

            The bottom right leg is splattered with blood.

            “God _damn_ it, Brian,” Tupelo mutters.

            Oh, what the hell. He’ll wash them, and no one will even be able to tell it’s blood. Tupelo’s never been crazy for that distressed, intentionally dirty look, but neither has he been crazy about tossing a hundred dollar pair of pants in the garbage just because some damn fool bled on them. He drops them in the hamper.

            That done, he pulls off the harness, and has a consternated look at the silicone thing attached to it, limply dangling around. Usually, Tupelo doesn’t bother packing, but when the only lead you have on your target is that he likes to grind up on black men at the club, sometimes you have to bite the bullet. “Feels like the real thing, my ass,” Tupelo says, and pitches it in the closet, back behind where he keeps the old knives.

            Stripping out of the rest, he considers putting on something to sleep in, then figures, _why bother_. Tupelo takes a moment to really appreciate the rumpled mess that is his bed. He reaches over, fingers stroking the top of the picture frame he keeps next to the bed—the only photo in the apartment, and murmurs, “Night, baby.” Tupelo doesn’t so much climb into bed as he collapses onto it.

            For a moment, he’s too tired to even pull the sheets over his body. Then he realizes he’s left the lamp on. Tupelo lets out an unhappy growl. He never sleeps well with lights.

            He takes a deep breath, then rolls over. He reaches out for the lamp—but his hand settles on the picture instead. Tupelo picks it up, settling against the skinny pillows, and looks at the photograph.

            It’s from six years ago. The two of them, him pulled up tight against Jesse. They look so happy, but not the kind of happiness that other couples project. This is a mischievous contentedness, a sense of ‘we know something you don’t and never will.’ Two people who were meant to be together, and are.

            It’s not really him in the picture; it’s his old self. Tupelo got rid of every single picture of the old him that he could find, because he doesn’t like to think about all those years spent lying and hating himself and everything in the world except Jesse, all because he’d been made wrong. The person in the picture is pretty and feminine, and it’s him but also very much not.

            He keeps it because of how Jesse looks in the photo. Tupelo runs his fingertips over that handsome face, missing him the same as he has every day for the past five years. Jesse, with his dark eyes and black hair, always on the edge of scruffy but never quite falling over. He has his arm wrapped tight around Tupelo, the camera in his other hand. Tupelo touches along his jaw. His perfect man. Just as insane and fucked up as he is.

            But gone.

            _No. You’re the one who left_.

            “Couldn’t stay, though, could I, baby?” Tupelo asks the photo. He brings it to his mouth, gently kissing Jesse’s face, and puts the picture back in its place. He tugs on the lamp chain, plunging the apartment into darkness.

            A moment later, the cat jumps up on the bed. It crawls onto Tupelo’s legs, and flops there.

            “Long day?” Tupelo asks, gazing at the ceiling. “Yeah—me too.”

            He turns over, dislodging the cat, and falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell them this world is full of danger  
> And to shun the company of strangers  
> ('The Kindness of Strangers,' Murder Ballads, 1996)
> 
> At the same time I discovered Preacher, I discovered Nick Cave. Like Garth Ennis (and myself) here was another guy from, y'know, the colonies, who was obsessed with the myth of the American West. They kind of go hand in hand for me, and the name Tupelo obviously comes from the song. The chapter titles are all from lyrics (does that make this a songfic? I'm still so new to fanfic that I seriously just figured out what OTP meant yesterday. I'M NOT KIDDING.) and a mantra that Tupelo uses throughout the story 'black rain come down' is from the song 'Tupelo' from The First Born is Dead (1985).  
> Well, since this is a new fandom for me to write in, I'd love to hear what you think.


	2. Devil waiting outside your door

After sleeping for nearly the whole twelve hours that he planned, Tupelo hauls his ass out of bed. He stands there a moment, yawning loudly. Smacking his lips a few times, he stumbles blearily towards the bathroom, kicking the door shut behind himself. Maybe he lives alone, but that goddamn cat has a tendency to show up underfoot when he least expects it, and then has the balls to act aggrieved about the situation.

            Turning on the water, he cracks the little window, then pushes it up all the way. It gives him a view of the back alley and nothing else. The people across the way could look in if they felt like it, but all they’d see was him from the shoulders up, and if they really want to look at him that bad, Tupelo’s not going to deny them.

            He leans against the sink, having a gaze at himself. Hair a fucking disaster. He’s just going to throw a hat on it today. To hell with it. Besides, he’s meeting Dany in a few hours. He’s supposed to be low profile.

            Tupelo wipes the sleep from his eyes, and steps back, turning side to side. Looking good. A little lean muscle on his biceps, the tattoo across his scars long since healed. Patting his hands absentmindedly against his flat chest, he turns and slips into the shower.

            _Oh, there we go. Thank you God_. If there was one, which Tupelo is quite secure in believing there is not. Right now, he’d give thanks to Allah, Krishna, or Joe Pesci. The water feels amazing.

            The last apartment he was in had terrible water pressure. It was like standing under a garden hose. This place might not be in a great neighbourhood, and maybe he’s had to put his own locks on both doors in the place, but the shower (and the fridge) are worth the price of admission.

            He shampoos his hair, in no real rush. He’s got about three and a half hours before he needs to meet Dany at the park. No sin in lingering. After all, he pays for power, but not water.

            Six thousand dollars. That is a decent chunk of change. He pays eight fifty a month for the apartment, so that’s, what? Seven months’ rent. Realistically, it’ll go in about half that time. He’ll spend hours in that theatre that shows old movies, or he’ll pick up some new sweater that’s more than he should pay for a week’s eating, or he’ll fritter it away on shots at the bar.

            It doesn’t bother him. Not like he plans on retirement.

            Not like he plans on much of anything. Tupelo never thinks further than the next job. After all, you think some things are set in stone, that you know how the rest of your life will go—that’s just asking for trouble.

            Someone’s at the door.

            Tupelo lifts his head, then shuts off the water quickly. He’s got good hearing, or at least one hell of a survival instinct. He turns, heart starting to pound. Nobody knows where this place is. He hasn’t told one single person where he lives, save Dany.

            Yeah—someone’s trying to get through the front door.

            _Fuck_.

            He scrambles out of the shower, going to the door. He can hear wood splintering. Jesus, what the hell are they doing? He can pick a lock in under a minute; did these fools just show up with crowbars?

            Tupelo puts across the locks on both sides of the door. He’s installed them on the side with the hinges too, because he’s not an idiot. Can’t be in this business. Simple shed locks, but hell, it’s better than nothing.

            Of course, he’s now trapped in his bathroom with no clothes.

            “Shit,” he mutters.

            He lifts the lid off the toilet tank, pulling out the lock box, then puts the lid back on. Grabbing a towel, Tupelo listens as bodies start to throw themselves against the front door. Well, this is definitely going to be close.

            He dries himself off briskly, not allowing himself to panic. People who panic have a tendency to get shot. Tupelo has been shot before, and made a personal pledge to not do it again. He’s got better things to do with his time.

            Fastidiously drying off his feet, Tupelo steps up onto the toilet. Leaning out the window, he looks to the right and left. No one in the alley, making sure he’s not going to run for it. Wow, these people are morons. He takes the towel, and tosses it to the right. It’s the only trail he’s going to be able to leave. It flutters down to the ground, draping off the dumpster directly beneath his window.

            Grabbing the lock box, Tupelo looks up as he hears the front door smash open. Time to go.

            He wriggles out the small window feet first, just slender enough to make his way through. It’s not exactly going to be easy, not with one hand holding the lock box, but six thousand dollars is plenty of money and he doesn’t intend on letting these assholes take it from him.

            Glancing down, his toes find the little ledge. No bigger than four inches, and covered in bird shit.

            _Your life is nothing but glamour, son_.

            He swings himself around, so he’s facing the wall. Tupelo shuffles along the ledge, front pressed to the brick and his back completely—good Christ— _completely_ exposed. Wasn’t he thinking earlier about how he didn’t care if the neighbours saw him?

            _From your lips to God’s ears_ , he hears, only it’s Jesse’s teasing voice in his head.

            He can hear loud voices coming from his apartment. And yeah, one of them is Brian’s. Either Tupelo is seriously off his game or he’s going to have to smack the shit out of Dany for giving him up.

            _She wouldn’t. Well—maybe she would_.

            Tupelo reaches the next window on the wall. Biting his lower lip, he lifts a hand and pushes it up a few inches. Raising the lock box, he pushes it in through the crack.

            Now here comes the really difficult part.

            The windows don’t stay closed unless you raise them up past a certain point. And Tupelo’s not quite high enough or tall enough for that. Gritting his teeth, he grabs the window sill with both hands, and lifts his knees, pressing them into the hard brick, lifting his feet off the ledge.

            _Upper body strength—come on, testosterone, don’t fail me now_.

            Knees screaming in protest, Tupelo gets just enough height to push the window up all the way. It fastens, and he drags himself up and inside. He can already feel the wounds opening on his knees. With very little in the way of finesse, he falls inside, somersaulting off the toilet and landing square on his ass.

            Then he’s looking down the barrel of a shotgun.

            He smiles up at the old woman behind it, and says, casual as anything, “Hey, Miss Marcel.”

            The old woman lowers the shotgun a few inches, staring at Tupelo in complete confusion. She’s heavy and wearing a house dress, hair flying out crazily from a bun.

            “Tupelo,” she says, “I was under the impression that you were a man.”

            “Oh, I am,” he replies, climbing to his feet. “I’m real sorry to drop in on you unannounced. Couldn’t be avoided.” He points at one of the towels. “You mind?”

            Leaning the shotgun against the wall, Miss Marcel says, perplexed, “Suppose not.” Tupelo grabs one of the towels, wrapping it around his waist, but making sure it doesn’t touch his bleeding knees. He doesn’t want to be an inconsiderate guest. He sits down on the toilet, listening through the thin walls as the men next door break into his bathroom. “Tupelo—is there a reason you came through my window?”

            He shrugs amiably, nodding to the wall. “Some men broke in. They’re robbing me.”

            “Oh. Well—should we call the police?”

            Tupelo rubs the back of his wet hair, giving her his best aw-shucks grin. “You know, I wouldn’t worry about it. They’re trying to steal back something I stole from them, so really it’s all fair play.”

            Unimpressed, Miss Marcel lets out a, “Mm hmm.” She shakes her head, and shuffles over to the medicine cabinet. “Better see to those knees.”

            “I’d sure appreciate that.”

            Tupelo picks up the lock box, giving it an appraising look as the men next door curse and start breaking things. What’s he gotten himself into this time?

 

An hour later, he approaches his apartment door with Miss Marcel’s shotgun, the old woman standing in the hall behind him. He tried to tell her that he’d be fine, but she said, “I am not letting you walk off with my gun, young man.”

            The door has almost been pulverized. Looks like they actually used a crowbar to get it open. Brow furrowed, Tupelo steps up to the opening, shotgun armed and ready in his hands.

            He takes a look inside and slumps. “Prairie shit.”

            His small, lovely little place has been torn _apart_. They’ve ripped all the clothes out of his closet, cut up the mattress—which is laying half off the bed—emptied all the cupboards, and smashed all his cups. No reason to do that last part. By that point it was clearly sheer pettiness.

            His bookshelf has been knocked over, and the curtains pulled off the rods. He cocks his head, looking into the bathroom. Yep, they pulled the lid off the tank. Damned good thing he took the box with him. He looks for his computer—nope. It’s been taken. He’s willing to bet they took the phone too.

            “They gone, Tupelo?”

            Dropping the gun, Tupelo sighs, “Yeah, they gone.” He holds out the gun. “Trade you.”

            Miss Marcel shuffles over in her slippers. She passes Tupelo the lock box, and he gives her the gun, tucking the box up against his side and stepping over the threshold of the apartment. From behind him, Miss Marcel says, “Oh dear.”

            Tupelo kicks through some of his clothes. They seem intact. Just scattered. Good. Oh, and those new Docs are fine too. Gotta take your wins where you find them.

            “They did all that for whatever’s in that box?”

            “Uh huh.” He grimaces, pushing at the closet door. It’s near been ripped off. So much for his damage deposit.

            “Do I want to know what’s in there?”

            “I don’t even know what’s in here. Probably best if neither of us find out, wouldn’t you say?”

            Tupelo blows out a breath, setting the box down on the ground. He pushes the mattress a little out of the way, looking for his phone. He’s pretty sure it was on the night table, last he saw it. He needs to get on the line to Dany, ask her what in the hell is going on.

            When he sees the picture frame, his heart stops.

            It’s not a metaphor. His heart actually seizes in his chest, and he can’t do anything. Distant, he hears Miss Marcel saying something, but all he can do is stare at the smashed photo frame on the ground.

            It’s empty.

            “No,” he says, and shoves the mattress over the other side of the bed.

            He gets on his hands and knees, searching frantically for the picture. It has to be here. It has to. He can’t let himself believe they took it, not yet—

            They’ve taken it. They definitely, definitely have.

            Tupelo sits back on his haunches, chest heaving and eyes wide with fear. Losing the picture—that would be a heartbreak. It would. That’s not what’s got him scared.

            It’s that on the back of the picture are written the words, ‘Jesse Custer and Tulip O’Hare: Until the end of the world.’

 

He’s leaning against the payphone, holding the top and swaying to and fro. The receiver is up to his ear, the line ringing.

            Tupelo glances around. He’s at the gas station three blocks from his place, face hidden under sunglasses and a hoodie. Still makes him nervous. He’s as likely to get shot by the police for his outfit as he is his new friends for going out without a disguise.

            Shaking his head, he murmurs, “Woman, pick up the phone. Pick up the goddamn _phone_.” He’s getting nauseous with worry. He glances back at his car. It’s pretty distinctive. Makes him feel a little exposed.

            The line suddenly picks up. “Is that you?”

            Tupelo drops his head, relief sinking in good and fast. Only now can he admit that he had visions of Dany laying on a floor somewhere with a bullet hole in her head.

            His hand curling into a fist onto of the payphone, Tupelo hisses, “What the fuck?” He bounces a little, he’s so livid. “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the _fuck_?”

            “Are you okay?”

            “I’m fine—“

            “Did they hurt you—“

            “Did they hurt _you_?”

            “Hell yes they hurt me. My arm’s broken.”

            “Jesus, Dany,” Tupelo cringes, resting his head against the box. “Where you at? Hospital?”

            “Yeah. Sitting in the waiting room. Where are—no. Don’t tell me. Don’t tell me where you are.”

            “Oh no. No, don’t tell me it’s like that—“

            “It’s definitely like that.”

            “We had a deal—I need the money—“

            “You want to come near me and get picked up? Because I know for certain there’s one asshole in this room who’s waiting for anyone to come near me. They’ve got me surrounded good and proper.”

            “Jesus Christ, you must be joking—“

            “Babe, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to tell them, but they broke my arm—“

            Tupelo rolls his eyes. “Well, of course you told them where I was. Don’t worry about that. Hell, I’d roll over on just about anybody, if they broke my arm.”

            “No you wouldn’t. You’re only trying to make me feel better.”

            His mouth pulls up in a brief, crooked smile, but he can’t help but wish he could go to her. He’s known Dany since the early days. She’s kept all his secrets until now. He sure as hell can’t begrudge her this one if someone snapped her arm like kindling.

            “Okay,” Tupelo says. “I know that I’m not supposed to know, but what the hell’s in the box?”

            “I’ve got no idea.”

            “Dany—“

            “Same as you, I have no clue. I told you everything that the money told me.”

            “So who’s the money?”

            Dany pauses, and drops her voice. “Someone for Grail Industries.”

            Tupelo gives it a few seconds, then tosses up a hand. “What the fuck does that mean? I have no idea what that means.”

            “I don’t know much about them, but what I do know isn’t good. Whatever’s in that box—the people who had it want it pretty bad, and—honest, babe, I was going to see about as much money as you from this.”

            His mouth drops open. “Are you kidding me? Are you—“ He lifts his fist into the air. “You’re telling me I had to do the legwork, I had to let that creep stick his tongue in my mouth to figure out where the hell he lived, and you were going to take half the profits? You’re seeing six thousand too?”

            “I’m so sorry—but the lawyer’s bills—Henry’s being so—“

            “I shoulda taken you up on the offer to shoot Henry,” Tupelo spits out. “Woulda been easier. God damn.”

            “I fucked this up pretty hard. I know that.”

            “No kidding. You should see my apartment.”

            “But you’re okay? They didn’t hurt you?”

            He rolls his eyes. “Please.”

            “I’m guessing that was your handiwork on the one fellow.”

            “He had some choice words to describe me. I let passion dictate my actions.” Tupelo grabs onto the side of the payphone. He looks around, unable to suppress his restlessness. Desperation is tugging at him too. “How bad do these people want me? For real?”

            “They told me next time they caught me alone, I’d eat a bullet if they didn’t have the box.”

            Tupelo shakes his head. Christ almighty, what a disaster. “Okay. Fine. I’ll give them the—“

            “Don’t you dare.”

            “What? What the hell are you—“

            “That guy you put the hurt on—Brian Evans. He’s pretty steamed about what you did to him, but it’s nothing compared to the other guy with him. I’ve never seen him before, but he’s the one who broke my arm. He said he was going to kill you. No matter what you did. But he was going to make you hurt first.”

            Oh no. How had this happened? “What the hell does he care? I just broke a man’s nose! I usually do that by breakfast.”

            “He’s a real piece of work. I got the impression he and Evans are together.”

            It falls into place pretty quick. Tupelo shuts his eyes, kicking at the ground a few times.

            Glancing up at the blue sky, Tupelo fills in, “So his boyfriend tries to step out on him, and I beat the shit out of that boyfriend, and steal from them. And now he wants to hurt me.”

            “Could be.”

            This keeps getting worse and worse. Tupelo sticks a hand into his hair. “Dany,” he says, heartsick, “they took the picture I have of Jesse. They know his name and everything. Did you tell them about him?”

            “What? No, Jesus no. Oh, shit—you don’t think—“

            “I don’t know. I don’t know—if this psycho wants to get back at me for whaling on his boyfriend, then maybe. No. No no no.”

            “You’ve got to warn him.”

            “Like I know how to get hold of him. Do you know where—“

            “I haven’t seen him in four years. Not since he came through here looking for you again.”

            Tupelo knows where he’s gone. Of course he knows. “This cannot be happening,” he says, more to himself than Dany.

            “Babe, you gotta get out of town. Take whatever the hell’s in that box with you for leverage, and run. Lay low.”

            “What about these—what was it? Grail? What about the Grail people? Can I go to them?”

            “I’ve been trying to call them for an hour. They’re not picking up.”

            “Good _gravy_ ,” Tupelo mutters, pushing his fingers against his eyes. The pressure’s unpleasant enough to detract from the ridiculousness of the whole situation.

            “Please, just get out of town. If you know where Jesse is, let him know to watch himself. But you gotta take care of yourself, okay? Call me in like a week. I’ll see if I can hash something out.”

            Shaking his head adamantly, Tupelo says, “Okay.”

            “You listening?”

            Still shaking his head. “Yep. You take care.”

            “You too.”

            He hangs up, and walks in a tight, angry circle.

            Then he grabs the receiver, and starts bashing it against the payphone.

            “I—am not—going—back there!” he yells. He beats the receiver mercilessly against the box, unable to control his fury. “I’m not, I’m not, I’m not!”

            The back snaps off the receiver, and he tosses the receiver against the wall. It rebounds, hanging sadly over the ground.

            Tupelo puts his hands on his hips, shoulders heaving. “Jesus Christ,” he says. “Yes I am.”

            Shoving his hood back, he strides over to the car. It’s a ’72 Chevelle SS. All his worldly possessions are stuffed into the back seat and trunk. He tosses his sunglasses onto the passenger seat angrily, dropping inside and slamming the door after himself. Muttering under his breath, he backs up with a screech, then pulls out of the parking lot.

            He’ll take the back roads until he can get on the 10. He’ll take that west until he hits Culberson County. And then Annville.

            Annville and Jesse Custer. Jesus wept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a devil waiting outside your door  
> 'Loverman' Let Love In (1994)
> 
> Thanks to everyone who read yesterday. As always, I'm a fiend for comments.


	3. Black as the pit in which you found me

“Phone him,” Tupelo murmurs. “Yeah. Phone him up.”

            He’ll get into Annville, he’ll ask about Jesse—of course the dumb bastard went back to Annville, licking his wounds—and somebody will know. He’ll find out where he is, and call him up. That way he won’t have to see him. Won’t have to see the look on his face.

            It’s dark. He stopped for about an hour a while back to have some food and try to clear his head. Well, he ended up eating two Chop House Cheddar Burgers, french fries, and a rootbeer shake, then spent the next forty five minutes trying not to throw up. It didn’t exactly leave him clear headed.  

            He turned off the 10 some time back, following the old roads up to Annville. Sky is pitch black out here, stars overhead like a handful of glitter thrown in the air. Behind him, though, it’s getting cloudy. He was just ahead of a thunderstorm when he pulled out of the Whataburger, and it looks like it’s followed him. Bad time of year for that kind of thing.

            No other state in the nation gets as many tornadoes as Texas, and this is tornado season. He knows all about it—he didn’t pick his name without serious consideration. And it sure as hell wasn’t because of the tupelo trees.

            Tupelo taps his hands restlessly along the top of the wheel as the car jostles its way over the barely paved road. He turned the stereo off a while ago. Out here, there’s not much to listen to on the radio except for the Christian rock station. All his music was on his phone and his laptop, which those fuckers stole.

            _Ain’t my fault_ , Tupelo thinks darkly about the mystery man. _Your pretty boyfriend wants to fuck around, blame him, not me. Sure as hell don’t break my friend’s arm and threaten my ex._

            The lock box sits on the passenger seat by his sunglasses. Tupelo hasn’t so much as touched it, and he’s not going to. He’s going to do just like Dany said. Hold onto it for leverage, call her in a week, and see how to climb out of this hole. Can’t go back to Austin, that much is obvious, but maybe he can make enough money from this to just get the hell out of this place, once and for all. California. Go to the ocean. It’s doable. Maybe he’ll renegotiate his earnings off of this. After all—hazard pay.

            In the meantime, he has to make sure Jesse doesn’t get shot.

            _Why didn’t you go to a computer and look him up?_

            Tupelo shakes his head, not wanting to admit the answer, but knowing it plain as day. It’s been five years since he’s even been near Jesse. And every day has been hollow without him in it. If he can just be near to him a little while—even if it’s in fucking _Annville_ —and be close enough to look in his direction while he makes the call, he could maybe….

            _Could what? You could what, son?_

“God damn it,” Tupelo mutters.

            It’s not going to make anything better. This is weak and stupid and reckless. He’s the third, he’s the third in spades, but the first two? Nuh uh. Tupelo O’Hare is anything but. He knows he’s doing this because he craves the sound of Jesse’s voice. That he misses him like an organ. Like something got cut out of him and he’s been walking around for five years with a hole in his side, pretending like things are normal.

            And even if Tupelo hears his voice, tells Jesse that he’s in trouble, that he needs to look after himself, what then? Will it make that ache hurt any less? Stitch up that wound? Nope. Odds are, it’s going to make things even worse, because maybe some distance has taken a bit of the edge off. He doesn’t cry about missing Jesse, like he used to. It’s just a fact of his life.

            He loved—will always love—Jesse Custer, but Jesse wanted a woman. Tupelo’s never been a woman, even if he was disguised as one since birth.

            Get to Annville, find Jesse’s number, call him up, and then go. Get ahead of the storm.

            “Black rain come down,” Tupelo whispers, nodding.

 

When he sees the lights in the distance, Tupelo brings the car to a shuddering stop.

            Face falling, he shakes his head. He leans forward, resting his chin on top of the wheel.

            Across the empty land, off in the distance, he sees the lights of Annville. It’s been a dog’s age since he’s gotten this close. When he swung through here on Jesse’s eighteenth birthday on his way out to Angelville, climbing up to the room they kept him in, and kidnapped him—though God knows Jesse had gone willingly—they had both sworn they would never come back. The idea of coming back hadn’t occurred to Tupelo. This was a small, mean little mistake of a town. Nothing to hold him. Both parents dead, his uncle sleeping it off more than he was conscious, most of his last few years spent in the next town over being shunted from one foster home to the next—Tupelo didn’t have a single reason to even stay in the damned state.

            But Jesse—Jesse and his promises. His sense of honour. Warped as it was. Be a good guy, ‘cause there’s too many of the bad. Take care of the church. Don’t steal horses. All that nonsense. Not to mention whatever the hell else his crazy grandmother and her minions had drilled into his head. He promised he’d never go back to Annville, but the second Tupelo left him, he knew this is where Jesse would go. All he knew was Tupelo and Annville, and one had gone. Tupelo hated the idea of him back here, but he hated the idea of Jesse being disgusted by him even more. So he’d let go.

            He’s probably gotten married. Settled down with some girl they went to school with. Kids, maybe. No, it’s only been five years. One kid, at the most, maybe another on the way. He’ll be doing something with his hands. Sure he was a bad boy, but he’d wished he could be good. Tupelo can see him as a mechanic, maybe. Or a welder. Going to church on Sundays, nodding along to whatever the preacher up at the front said.

            _I don’t need to know. I don’t need to know who he ends up with instead of me, I don’t need to know how he’s going to spend the rest of his life pretending to be something he’s not. All I need to know is that he keeps himself safe._

Tupelo realizes that keeping Jesse safe will probably mean keeping whoever his wife ended up being safe too, and the thought makes him want to puke.

            Taking the car out of park, he sighs and consoles himself that maybe the boys from Austin will accidentally shoot the wife and Jesse will miraculously survive.

            _That’s not very nice._

_I don’t care. I’m not a very nice man._

He drives slower than before, not in such a hurry. The closer he gets to Annville, the more he feels like this is a terrible idea. This isn’t a place he’s supposed to be. Not ever again. He did his time.

            All he’ll do is find a gas station and a phone book. Get Jesse’s number, call him up—if the wife or girlfriend or whoever picks up, Tupelo will give her a piece of his mind—but he’ll tell Jesse what he needs to, and then get back on the road. He’ll go to San Antonio, maybe. If not, he’ll sleep in the car.

            Tupelo passes a sign saying that Annville’s ten miles away, and frowns. It used to have an Indian chief or something on it. Now it has a chipmunk or squirrel, only it’s got a swastika spray painted on top.

            Yep. There’s the Annville he remembers. Tupelo mutters, “Keep on driving on, until the City of Right becomes the City of Wrong.”

            Propping his head up, he sees a truck parked off the opposite side of the road. Tupelo sighs, not figuring on stopping. If they’ve run out of gas, it isn’t like they’re really that far from town, and he has a schedule he needs to hold to.

            His interest is peaked when he sees a man lying in the dust in front of the truck, flat on his belly, arms star fished. Bottle by his right hand. Snorting, Tupelo blows by the silver blue pickup, thinking that between the swastika and the drunk, that’s Annville in a nutshell.

            He slams his foot on the brake.

            The seatbelt grabs him as he lurches forward. Tupelo smacks the back of his head against the seat, then sits there, wide eyed and breathing heavy.

            Nope. Nope, nope, nope.

            Yeah, he can pretend all he likes, but he knows that goddamn pickup.

            “Son of a bitch,” he whispers. He glances over his shoulder. The truck’s still running, headlights on, but the man’s down in the ditch, and Tupelo can’t see him.

            And he can’t leave him there.

            Tossing his hands up, Tupelo says, “My life!” He turns off the engine, tossing off the seatbelt and jamming his keys into his jeans pocket. “This is my life. In all its weird, terrible glory.”

            He shoves open the door, stepping outside. The wind is picking up. Pushing his curls off his forehead, he looks to the east. There’s a thin splinter of lightning in the distance.

            Tupelo kicks the road a few times, hovering by the car. He shrugs out of his hoodie, throwing it in the backseat of the vehicle, then tugs on his small John Lee Hooker t-shirt. Reminding himself that he’s faced scarier than this, he strides across the road.

            It’s a lie—he doesn’t think he’s ever been more afraid.

            Tupelo comes around the side of the truck, and hesitates. He takes in the truly pathetic sight before him. The man’s not too big, not much taller than he is. Compact, and dressed all in black. He’s cut his hair, a lot like Tupelo’s, short on the sides and back, long on top, only his black hair doesn’t curl.

            And he’s singing quietly to himself. Tupelo has to strain to hear him, but when he does, he rolls his eyes. Johnny Cash, ‘I See a Darkness.’ Of fucking course.

            Tupelo walks around him, leaning down with his hands on his thighs. “So?” he says. “What was it? You get to watching your Bill Hicks DVDs again?”

            A moment passes, then Jesse lifts his head and squints. Tupelo holds his breath, waiting to see what he’ll do.

            Slightly confused, and reeking of whiskey, Jesse says, “Tulip?”

            His face hardens. Tupelo says, “Bitch, does it look like my name is Tulip?”

            Jesse frowns, his brow wrinkled. He pushes himself up a few inches, and Tupelo’s eyes almost fall out of his head.

            “You’ve got to be fucking _kidding_ me.”

            He’s got on a white collar. Jesse Custer, toughest man he ever met, love of his life, has gone and become a preacher. The coward. Everything else is black, save for some collar clips and a massive belt buckle. Annville boy. Of course he’s got a buckle as big as his head.

            Jesse sits back on his ass, lolling a little, and gazes up at Tupelo with unfocused eyes. “No—you can’t be Tulip. Cause you got a…thing on your face. But you sound like Tulip. If Tulip was a boy.”

            “I’m not a boy, I’m a man. And so are you, though you wouldn’t know it, you out on the road in the middle of the night, drunk off your ass. Though I would be too if I was dumb enough to start preaching.”

            Running a hand over his short, messy hair, Jesse asks, “You sure you ain’t Tulip?”

            With a sigh, Tupelo says, “I am Tulip, but I’m not Tulip either. I’m Tupelo. Sounds similar, so you shouldn’t have too much trouble.” He watches Jesse clumsily brush at his black clothes, just getting them even dustier. His heart keens to find his man in such a state. Reaching down, Tupelo tilts his chin up. Jesse’s lower lip has been split. There’s blood spilled down his scruff, onto his throat. “See you haven’t changed that much.”

            Eyes closing, Jesse mumbles, “Are you an angel?”

            Blowing out a breath, Tupelo says, “Okay, enough of that.”

He walks back to the truck. He hops up inside, leaning across to lock the passenger door. He turns the truck off, slipping the keys into his other pocket, then locks the other door before slamming it shut.

            Walking back to Jesse, Tupelo slips an arm around him, and braces with his legs. “Come on. I’ll get you home. Don’t tell me you’re living in the church.”

            “Mm. Yeah. Living in the church.”

            “Unbelievable,” Tupelo says, lifting Jesse up. He’s barely able to stand, faltering like a newborn calf. Tupelo stays steady, adjusting his grip. He has one arm around Jesse’s back, and one of Jesse’s arms slung over his shoulders. “C’mon, preacher man. I’ll drive you home.”

            Jesse stumbles along, and Tupelo realizes with a quiver that underneath the whiskey, he still smells the same. The same cologne his daddy wore. Damn it, he knew it would be dangerous, getting anywhere near him.

            One time, Jesse asked what he smelled like, and Tupelo just answered, “The American west,” and they both laughed, but the thing was, Tupelo had meant it.

            “I am perplexed.”

            “What’s that—Jesus, Jesse, you gotta help me a little here.”

            “You sure _feel_ like Tulip.”

            “Well, I ain’t Tulip. I’m Tupelo.”

            “You change your name?”

            “I changed a lot of things.”

            They manage to get across the road, and Tupelo basically drops Jesse on the hood of the Chevelle. He takes a breath, then opens up the passenger side door. He tosses the lock box onto the backseat with everything he owns, then sticks the sunglasses on top of his head. If he puts them anywhere else, he’ll lose them.

            “All right, you drunk, let’s get you into the car.”

            Tupelo hauls Jesse off the hood, and the other man says, “It’s a nice car.”

            “Yes it is,” Tupelo agrees, helping Jesse stumble the distance of a few feet, “and if you throw up in it, I’ll kick you out without stopping. We clear, Custer?”

            Jesse makes a sound of confirmation, and Tupelo gets him to drop down inside. Jesse just sits there, head flopping back. He hasn’t even been able to get his legs in the vehicle.

            Face contracting with concern, Tupelo reaches down. He lifts Jesse’s legs up, one at a time, and tucks them inside. Taking the seatbelt, he leans across Jesse to buckle him in, and even as much of a disaster as Jesse might be at the moment, Tupelo can’t help but shiver at the nearness of him.      

            Drawing back, he puts a hand to Jesse’s chest. “You good?”

            Jesse nods, eyes closed and a dreamy smile on his face. Tupelo shakes his head and closes the door on him. At least someone is happy. He walks around the front of the car, looking to the east. Storm is getting closer, and louder too, thunder trembling the ground long before the rain has even reached them. He doesn’t like to think what it would have looked like, Jesse passed out on his belly in a thunderstorm. In a goddamn ditch.

            Hissing, Tupelo slips inside, closing the door after himself. He shoves in the keys, firing up the car, and pulls back onto the road.

            Well, this isn’t how he expected things going. Literally not in any way, shape, or form.

            Tupelo pulls his lips into his mouth, not letting himself look at Jesse. He’s not going to be able to talk to him tonight. He’s too drunk. He won’t remember a damned thing. Jesse Custer, that son of a bitch. He sure as hell isn’t leaving him with any kind of keys either, just in case there’s another vehicle at the church. Tupelo’s going to have to come back when he’s sober, and actually talk to him.

            Son of a _bitch_.

            “Tulip, I seem to have misplaced my whiskey.”

            “My name’s not Tulip.”

            “Mm?” He sees Jesse lift his head from the corner of his eye. “No. No, sir, you are not. My apologies. I am—walking on a slant at the moment, I’m afraid.”

            “I can see that. I can smell it too.”

            “You sure…look like someone I knew.”

            “Yeah.” Tupelo takes a deep breath. “So? What’s got you out on the road, hammered out of your goddamn mind in the middle of the night?”

            Jesse slumps down in his seat, knees spreading widely. Taking up as much space as he can. “Oh, I—got in a fight.”

            Tupelo waits. Yeah, and? He and Jesse had been getting into fights since they were old enough to make fists. “And you lost. I’m guessing by the state of your mouth.”

            “My mouth?” Jesse reaches up, thumb touching his swollen lip. “Mm. Yeah. Guess I lost.”

            “Doesn’t sound like you.”

            “No, it doesn’t.” He suddenly shakes his head. “I mean—no. No, I don’t get in fights. I’m the preacher, for heaven’s sake. I don’t get in fights.”

            “The preacher might not get in fights. But Jesse Custer does.”

            “Well…that might be the problem.” Jesse rubs his hand over his face. “I coulda…coulda laid that man out. Like he was nothing. He _is_ nothing. No better than he should be. Wife beating, redneck piece of….But I didn’t. I just let him hit me, and I didn’t do…a god…damn…thing.”

            Tupelo nods. “No wonder you were out there drinking.” He casts Jesse a frown. “You didn’t _drive_ out there drunk, did you, Jesse Custer? Because so help me God—“

            Jesse waves him off. “No, I wouldn’t….Just had a shot at the bar, then that…bastard punched me in my face. Bought a bottle, started driving, and found a nice spot to just…not think.” He turns in his seat, narrowing his eyes at Tupelo. “And then you showed up. I gotta tell you…you really remind me of someone.”

            “You’re drunk,” Tupelo says patiently.

            “I am at that.”

            He swallows, and says, “You cut your hair.”

            “So did you.”

            “Uh huh.” Tupelo breathes in and out through his nose. “Looks good. Better than that look you had in Dallas. Didn’t have the heart to tell you that you looked like some two bit thug out of an ‘80s gangster movie, but you’re drunk enough that you won’t remember I said that.” He hisses. “And the hair sure as hell looks better than that damned get up you got on.”

            “What get up?”

            “What get up?” Tupelo mocks. “How about that silly ass white collar? What were you thinking?”

            Jesse touches it with slow moving fingers. “I’m the preacher. Preacher gotta wear the collar.”

            “Good _lord_. I figured you for getting pissed somewhere, sure, but not being a damned martyr.”

            “Family…family business.”

            Tupelo mutters darkly, “Don’t remind me.”

            “And what do you do? Other than…acts of charity?”

            Wiseass. “Get up to no good.”

            Jesse nods appreciatively. “I used to do that.”

            Tupelo glances at him. “Why’d you stop?”

            Looking at the approaching storm in the rear-view mirror, Jesse says, “Woman broke my heart. Same old story a hundred better men have to tell.”

            Wincing, Tupelo takes them around the town. Not much sense in going through if he doesn’t have to. The church is on the western side, far enough that it’s difficult for people to walk, close enough that it seems a waste to drive. People drive nonetheless.

            “Looks like a….” Jesse hiccups. “Norther.”

            “May be,” Tupelo says absently, not caring too much about the storm.

            “You bring it with you?”

            “I usually do.”

            Tupelo gets them to the turn off, headlights briefly flashing over the sign for All Saints Congregational. His mouth twitches slightly when he sees that someone’s fucked with the sign. It reads ‘He Loved Us So Much He Came!’ Driving under the gate, he has a look at the church.

            Now there’s a sight he sure as shit never needed to see again. Little white thing out in the middle of nowhere, looking like the definition of hopelessness. Doesn’t look like they’ve bothered much with the upkeep. Tupelo feels grim just seeing it. It’s only a few steps better than that huge tree off to the north a short ways—that’s where they used to hang people.

            He drives around the back of the building. Yeah, there’s a van. So he can’t leave Jesse with the keys. Parking, Tupelo leans back and raises his shoulders. “There you go. Got you home.”

            Jesse snores softly.

            Tupelo punches him in the shoulder, and Jesse startles awake. “Wha--?”

            “You’re home. You gonna be okay to get inside by yourself? I got no interest in putting you to bed.”

            Fumbling for the seatbelt, Jesse slurs, “Back door’s unlocked.”

            Watching him, Tupelo says, “I’m gonna come back and talk to you when you’ve sobered up. I’ll drop by tomorrow morning. When’s a good time?”

            “Eleven.”

            “Okay.” Tupelo chews his lower lip as Jesse pushes the door open, swinging his legs outside. “Baby, you gonna be okay to get inside?”

            Nodding, Jesse replies, “Yeah, sweetheart, I got it.”

            It’s like a knife wound. Tupelo’s been shot, punched, and hurt in all kinds of ways, but this feels like a knife. When you get stabbed, it takes a few seconds to realize how badly you’ve been injured.

            Jesse doesn’t remember to close the door behind himself. He staggers up the back steps, and almost falls inside the church. Tupelo waits until he’s disappeared, then he unbuckles. He leans across, yanking the door shut, and drops back into his seat.

            His heart is fluttering out of control. He sticks both hands in his hair, and tries not to inhale the scent of Jesse. Only it’s all over the car. Ashman’s Cologne. The American west.

            A preacher. What the _fuck_.

           

Running from the car to the building with his hoodie over his head, Tupelo flinches at the strike of lightning that lands less than a mile away. The ground shudders under his feet, hoodie soaking through in a manner of seconds. The storm’s turned out to be a real toad choker.

            He scrambles up onto the porch, cursing under his breath. Holding out the wet jacket, he bangs his fist on the front door a few times, having a look around. The inside is mostly dark, but if everyone’s asleep, he’ll eat his hat. If he had a hat. Only decent one he did have, looks like those Austin boys scraped their boots on it. Porch roof is leaking badly. It’s windy and cold and loud and he just wants to get some sleep. Preferably not in the car.

            Tupelo pounds on the door again, hollering, “Old woman, let me in!”

            He thinks he hears someone upstairs yelling for him to fuck off, but it’s a man, and he’s not interested in any of the men in the joint. Tupelo grits his teeth and just starts hitting his fist against the door continuously, jumping when the lightning comes down again close enough to scare even him.

            Finally, he gets an answer from the other side of the door. “Closed for the night! Doors open tomorrow at one!”

            “Mosie, for Christ’s sake, I’m gonna drown out here and I ain’t sleeping in no damn car when the sky’s on fire! Let me in!”

            After a pause, Mosie says in curiosity, “Who is that?”

            A veritable gong of thunder crashes overhead, and Tupelo yelps, “Tupelo O’Hare, now open the goddamn door!”

            He hears the door unlock, and before Mosie can even get a look at him he’s ducked inside, into the front room. “Tulip! What in the world—“

            Turning around, Tupelo starts brushing the rain from his hair. “Nuh uh. Tupelo. That’s my name.”

            Mosie turns on the light, and they have a look at each other. She’s gotten older since the last time he saw her, hair completely grey now instead of the dark brown it was when he was a kid. Put on weight too. Looks like someone’s grandmother instead of a madam.

            “Hey, Mosie,” Tupelo says, like they just saw each yesterday instead of over a decade ago.

            Furrowing her brows, Mosie says, “What in tarnation is that thing on your face?”

            She takes Tupelo by the chin, studying him closely. “That’s my goatee. Gotta keep that, otherwise people get the wrong idea. Seem to think I’m a girl.”

            “Last time I saw you, you were a girl.”

            “No I wasn’t.”

            Letting him go, Mosie says, “Couldn’t you have just been happy being a tomboy?”

            “Why be happy with that when I’m a man?”

            Crossing her arms, Mosie sniffs. “Well? What brings you to my door in the middle of the night? You got a goatee, so what, you want a girl too?”

            “No ma’am. I was wondering if you had a couch I could sleep on or something. I’ll be gone tomorrow morning.”

            With an eye roll, Mosie mutters, “Sleep on the couch, like hell.” She reaches out an arm, and pulls Tupelo up against her side. It’s been a long day, and Tupelo goes gladly. He’s never had much in the way of parental figures, but Mosie is on the short list of those who came nearest to fitting the bill. “I got a room upstairs that’s open. Got a bathroom attached and everything.”

            “Can’t pay you.”

            “Didn’t expect you could. I’ve known you since the day you were born.”

            “My daddy always paid his bills,” Tupelo says, a little ashamed.

            Mosie guides him up the stairs, giving him a squeeze. “I was thinking about your daddy the other week. We’ve got a girl here, looks like your mama. I was thinking about the both of them. And now you come in on the wind. Must mean something.”       

            “Probably not,” Tupelo replies.

 

He’s too tired to do much more than use the toilet, which is probably a small blessing. The only light in the bathroom is a red one. He shakes his head at that, thinking, _and these are my people_. After giving his hands a good, long scrub, he heads back to the small bedroom.

            Mosie brought in clean sheets for him, which was a kindness. The bed’s all made up, and Tupelo climbs onto it, wearing his underwear and shirt.

            Slipping an arm under his head, he gazes up into the black, angry sky. The water’s coming down off the window in sheets, obscuring the outside. But then a bolt of lightning will strike across the darkness, and a moment later the shaky old brothel will shiver with it.

            Annville. Mosie. Toadvine. The church.

            Jesse.

            Watching the deluge, Tupelo murmurs, “Black rain come down.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Black as the pit in which you found me  
> 'Kiss Me Black' Junkyard (1982)
> 
> Keep on driving on  
> Until the City of Right  
> Becomes the City of Wrong  
> 'Sugar Sugar Sugar' Tender Prey (1988)
> 
> Well, to you few intrepid souls who have gotten this far, I think you're spectacular.


	4. If this is heaven, ah'm bailin out

He doesn’t fuck around with his hair today. He takes out everything he has, even the pure aloe vera gel, and sets about the task of making it look perfect.

            He’s got to look perfect. He has got to be absolutely fucking stunning. And he will be.

            Tupelo spends about twenty minutes playing with his hair, until the curls are glossy and soft. Sometimes he swears he just beats them into submission through pure will. Well, that and a small fortune in hair care products.

            He’s a man, yeah, but some things you don’t abandon just because society tells you to stop giving a shit.

            Tupelo pulls on his tightest jeans, pairing them with those china pattern Docs. Then he stands with his hands on the back of his hips, considering. Giving in to the need to impress, he pulls on his Johnny Cash tank, and tosses a light brown sweater over it. That done, he closes up his suitcase, and makes the bed.

            When he heads downstairs, Mosie is sitting at the kitchen table with two of the girls. They’re all smoking, and there’s no sign of food. Tupelo puts his suitcase down and leans against the doorway. “Morning.”

            “Good morning,” says Mosie. She points to the thick blond girl. “That’s Tawny. And this is Gina.” She aims the cigarette at a sleeping looking Latina. “I was telling you about her.”

            Not remembering, Tupelo says, “Telling me what?”

            As if it’s obvious, Mosie says, “She looks like your mother.”

            It’s so ridiculous that Tupelo can only stare at Mosie a second. “Do you _remember_ what my mother looked like? My mother looked like Nina Simone. She was _black_. Does that girl look black to you? What are you, Mexican?”

            “Puerto Rican,” the girl yawns.

            “My God,” Tupelo mutters, walking over to the table. “I swear, soon as we’re a shade darker than pink, we all look the same to you, don’t we.” He swipes a pack of cigarettes off the table, and lights himself one.

            He cracks his back as Mosie says, “You sleep well on that bed you didn’t pay for?”

            “Like a baby. Thanks for that. I’ll be heading on now.”

            “You seen Jesse?”

            Glowering, Tupelo sucks in a mouthful of smoke. “Ran into him last night. Asked me to drop by the damn church this morning. So that’s what I’m fixin’ on doing before I get the hell out of Dodge.”

            Mosie gazes up at him. “He asked you to come to church this morning?”

            “Yeah. What about it?”

            “Oh, nothing. You tell him I say hi.”

            “What, he been around here?”

            “Nope. Never. Still waiting for his lady love to show up, I expect.”

            Tupelo shrugs. “Guess he’ll be waiting until the end of time.” He slips an arm around Mosie’s shoulder, bending down to kiss her head. “Thanks for the safe place.”

            Mosie pats his back. “Any time, kid.”

            Tupelo lifts his cigarette in salute to the girls, then pauses. “Oh—keep your eyes peeled for two or more guys with guns.”

            As he goes to get his suitcase, Mosie says, “We usually do, hon.”

           

The landscape looks different in the daytime. Less ominous and more dead. All the residue from the night’s storm has been sucked into the earth. The skies are a pale shade of blue with anemic clouds floating across them.

            Tupelo drives outside the town again, not wanting to have to actually go through Annville. He’s avoided people he used to know as much as he is able. He’s always known that if anyone saw who he really was, they’d likely throw a punch, and then he’d end up doing jail time for defending himself.

            Yawning to the point that it pops his jaw, he purses his mouth unhappily as he approaches the gate for the church. He sees that the sign has been fixed. ‘Open your hearts and minds to Jesus.’ With a roll of the eyes, Tupelo takes the corner.

            He gets about ten feet before stopping the car.

            What the hell are those vehicles doing parked out front? There’s not many, maybe about a dozen, but the only time so many people would be out here is—

            He closes his eyes, letting his head fall against the wheel. Jesse was so drunk, he’d told him to show up the same time as everyone else, only Tupelo’s late. And Mosie was so amused because she realized Tupelo had no idea that it’s Sunday.

            Sunday and all of Annville’s faithful—of which there’s obviously few—are gathered in church. Preacher Jesse Custer presiding.

            It galls Tupelo to no end. He’s known a lot of different faces when it comes to Jesse Custer, and every one he’d loved. Except this one. The one where he just rolled over and showed his belly because things didn’t go how he’d expected. Run home to Annville, to the church. It disgusts Tupelo.

            This isn’t the man he knew. The man he’s loved since they were children.

            _Oh, pull the stick out of your ass, O’Hare. Of course it is._

            Tupelo shakes his head, looking at the sun bleached church. He never thought he’d step foot in there again. Not after what the previous Preacher Custer did to him. But he’s perverse, and he wants to see how truly dire the situation is.

            He drives down the road, along the sparse trees and little tufts of grass. He parks out of the way of everyone else, expecting—or at least hoping—that he’ll be back on the road as soon as their conversation is done.

            Getting out of the car, Tupelo makes sure it’s tightly locked behind himself. The box is hidden inside one of the seats, behind all his things. The boys from Austin would have to be pretty damned thorough to find it, though he admits they did go far enough to slice open his mattress.

            He still hasn’t opened the box. He doesn’t intend to.

            He walks amongst the vehicles, facing the building like an old foe. If he had his way, he’d come back later with a jerry can filled to the brim and a damned grenade.

            Tupelo stops just outside the shadow of the church, and squints up at the sky. Lifting a hand to shield his eyes, he shrugs. “Well—you’re gonna strike me dead, guess you better try now, cocksucker.”

            Predictably, nothing happens.

            Before he can say, _yeah, I thought so_ , a voice from behind him slurs, “You shoulnt saythat.”

            Tupelo spins. Before he can help himself, he exclaims, “Jesus _wept_ , child, what happened to you?”

            The teenaged boy is seated against the front of the police car. He’s dressed immaculately, like something out of a 1950s short film, the kind they still showed in class when Jesse and Tupelo went to school. But his face—holy shit, that kid’s _face_ —

            Tupelo raises a hand, and apologizes. “I’m sorry, that was uncalled for. But damn, son.”

            The boy shrugs. “S’okay. Ever—“ He has to stop to slurp back his spit. “R’one thinks it. Most are mean, sayin’ it—‘bout my face. I know—s’uppised you.”

            “Yes you did.” Tupelo frowns, trying really hard to get past the puckered horror of the boy’s mouth. What makes his face so hard to stand is his right eye. It’s perfect. Just the shape of his forehead and that eye, you can tell he was handsome, before whatever malady befell him. “Why’re you sitting out here?”

            The boy shrugs again, amiable. “N’welcome. Scare—scare people.”

            That doesn’t sit well with Tupelo. “Well—trust me. I’m not welcome either. And I scare the living shit out of folk. But I’m going in there. You decide you want to come in, you come sit with me.” He turns and walks up the steps, blowing out a breath of dismay. “I’ll be at the back. My hypocrisy goes only so far.”

            He takes hold of the door, and slips inside, making as little noise as possible. Still, about half of the two dozen or so congregants glance back at him, and their gazes linger. Tupelo ignores them. He just has a seat in the back pew on the left, slouching and crossing his arms.

            Only then does he look to the front of the church.

            Jesse’s moving his mouth, but it’s obvious that he’s got no idea what he’s saying. His eyes are stuck on Tupelo, and his expression would be funny if Tupelo didn’t feel like the butt of a joke. The look on Jesse’s face says, _I thought you were a hallucination_.

            Raising a brow, Tupelo stares back and props his foot up against the pew in front of him.

            Jesse snaps out of it, returning to his notes. “Ah—“ He glances at the worshippers, with a little smile that asks for forgiveness. He struggles to find his place. Locating it, he raises his head.  

“This is it. This is the best I can do. For Coach Tom Landry, that wasn’t good enough.”

            Tupelo lets his head fall forward in disbelief. Landry? He’s resorting to inspiring these people with Tom Landry?

            “He looked down at that player, and, uh—“ Jesse clears his throat, friendly little smile on his face that doesn’t look like any of the smiles Tupelo knows from him. It makes him look kind, instead of a shark. And this man’s a demon from hell. Tupelo should know; he helped make him that way. “He said—“ He furrows his brow at something on the paper. “Get up—“ He coughs again. “Get up off your—backside.”

            Oh, it’s painful. Watching Jesse Custer pretend to be a good man, let alone a preacher, is like watching a car crash in slow motion.

            And it’s not like he’s the only one aware of that. It appears that the only two people in the church even looking at the preacher are the sheriff, in the front row, and the pretty girl behind the electric keyboard. Everyone else is half asleep. There’s some kids playing on a tablet, smashing their gummy little fingers against it.

            The church is too warm and poorly ventilated. The dust fills the air, and Tupelo can see that someone’s scratched their initials into the pew in front of him. No one’s taken the time to try and sand it out. He thought this place was miserable when he was a kid. Compared to this? Place was a regular 700 Club. Or whatever hundred that thing was.

            Jesse’s trying not to look at him, his cheeks flushing. He goes back and forth between his notes and the parishioners, hiding his nervousness behind that little smile. _You’re not fooling a soul_ , Tupelo wants to tell him.

            He hears the door crack open, just a touch, and glances back. The boy with the terrifying face is peeking in. Tupelo takes pity on him. Putting an arm over the back of the pew, he beckons the boy over. One perfect eye darting around, he scoots inside, and quickly comes to sit down by Tupelo.

            This boy wants to be here so badly. Tupelo does not get it. At all.

            He looks around, and sees some fine upstanding Christian woman looking over at the boy in disgust. A fire lights inside Tupelo. Putting his arm along the back of the pew, he lets his middle finger fold out, staring into her eyes. She starts, and turns back to the front of the church, going a deep red.

            Christians. An entire religion based on love and acceptance, and Tupelo swears he’s never met a more close minded, hateful group in his life. And he was once in a brawl with the Klan.

            Turning his attention back to Jesse, he watches his once fierce man bumble through his pitiful speech about legendary football coach Tom Landry, until he stops, rather abruptly. He’s flipping through his pages.

            Oh, no. He’s missing one.

            “The answer is—“ Jesse stalls, and Tupelo’s probably the only one paying close enough attention to realize how dreadful the situation is. Lifting his head, Jesse says, “Be humble.”

            _Nice save, preacher._

            With a pained smile, Jesse says, “So think about that.” He nods, looking around at everyone.

            And Tupelo can see the defeat in his eyes. That’s what kills him. It’s all well and good to make fun of Jesse for the choices he’s made, the courage he’s lost. But to see him think he’s stuck, to think he’s been beaten—that he cannot _stand_.

            Straightening, Jesse says, “And whoever’s messing with the sign, can you stop, please—“

            The electric keyboard cuts him off, made to sound like an organ, and Jesse casts a frustrated glance at the pianist. Then he steps back, looking diminished, as the parishioners begin to rise in relief.

            Already knowing the answer, Tupelo leans over and asks the boy, “Is he always that terrible?”

            Eyes going stunned, the boy says, “The preacher’s _great_.”

            Poor kid. “Sure he is.” Pulling back his arm, Tupelo offers his hand. “I’m Tupelo, by the way.” The kid looks down at his hand, like he doesn’t know what to do with it. Tupelo’s not sure why, but then the boy takes his hand gingerly, as if he’s been given a gift, and gives his hand a shake, the corner of his one perfect eye crinkling with a smile. The boy says something, but there’s too much slobber, and Tupelo leans forward. “Sorry, say again?”

            Swallowing, the boy says, “Euthene.”

            “Eugene?” The boy nods, and Tupelo pats him on the arm. “Nice to meet you, Eugene.”

            “Eugene!” They both look up. The sheriff, a thick man with hard dark eyes, is standing at the end of the pew. “What did I tell you?”

            “Sor’ Dad,” Eugene says, getting to his feet. He nods to Tupelo. “Awf’l nice mee’ing you, Misser Tup’lo.”

            “You too, Eugene. Take it easy.”

            The sheriff gives Tupelo a look, which Tupelo returns, a brow arched. The man walks away, head down and shoulders squared.

            Tupelo can hear everyone congregating in the small lobby. They’ll all wait until Jesse can get out front, shake his hand, tell him what a good job he did, even though not a one, save maybe the sheriff and Eugene could remember a word of what he said. Tupelo hooks his elbows over the back of the pew, not stirring as Jesse walks past.

            Then it’s just him and the pianist.

            She’s casting him little looks. Tupelo gives her a good once over. She’s his and Jesse’s age, but he doesn’t remember her. Pale and brunette, wearing a flowered dress under a tasteful cardigan. Everything about her says _I am a respectable and upstanding member of the community. I am everything you are not_.

            Tupelo hates her on sight.

            Pushing himself to his feet, he walks down the aisle to the front of the church. The Custers always lived in the rooms built onto the back. He knows his way around.

            “Excuse me, sir?” says the pianist. Tupelo just turns, his face blank. The woman—who looks like she was born to be a preacher’s wife—is standing in front of the electric piano, all wide blue eyes. He doesn’t see a ring on her hand, so Jesse hasn’t made her an honest woman yet. He bets they don’t even fuck, that’s how boring they are together. She’s probably saving herself for marriage. “You can’t go back there.”

            Sticking his hands in his back pockets, Tupelo glances at the front door. He sees Jesse from behind, through the paltry crowd. All in black. At least he’s got that part right.

            “You can tell Jesse I’ll be waiting for him once he’s done jacking off the faithful,” Tupelo says, then walks through the door.

 

The home is _exactly_ how he remembers it. Well, admittedly, there’s more empty bottles of Ratwater Whiskey than there would have been on John Custer’s watch, but other than that, it’s like stepping back through time.

            Tupelo sits at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette that he stole from Jesse’s room. He took a quick look around, just to see what changed, and was depressed and a little unnerved to discover that nothing had. He snagged the pack of cigarettes and the lighter and that old ashtray Jesse had stolen from Quincannon a million years ago, and went into the kitchen, closest to where the light was.

            The whole place is dark. It feels like the 1980s in here, or maybe even the ‘70s. Shag carpet, wood panelling on the walls. Everything old and overused. The table’s formica, and the television has legs. He swears it’s still the one from when they were kids.

            Tupelo opened the curtains over the sink wide, and propped open the back door. He needs some light on his face. Just being in this place is draining.

            He sucks in some smoke, then lets it curl forward. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say. It’s best not to plan these things. Way back when, he tried so many times to come up with a way to tell Jesse that wouldn’t send him running in the other direction. When he figured out there were no words, that’s when he knew they had no hope of making it.

            There’s the sound of footsteps overhead. Someone’s up in the attic. God only knows why. Tupelo leans forward, tapping ash off the end of his cigarette.

            The door to the church opens, and he feels something inside go tremulous. He hates it. He’s not a weak man. It’s not a flaw he has ever allowed himself. This is the only thing that could ever make him feel this way.

            Without looking, he feels Jesse’s eyes on him. Tupelo keeps himself still. He knows how to contain himself, how to protect himself from hurt. There’s a cut out in the wall, so he could look into the living room if he wanted. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to see Jesse’s face.

            There’s the sound of cowboy boots on carpet. Soft as a whisper. Jesse walks cautiously to the doorway of the kitchen, bracing one hand on it.

            Still not looking at him, Tupelo tugs the keys out of his tight pocket, and tosses them down the table. He’s sitting at the head, close to the stove, where John always sat. When Tupelo was over, he’d sit in the guest spot, closest to the door. Jesse would be between them.

            Tupelo takes a deep drag on his cigarette as Jesse pushes himself off the doorway, going to sit at the opposite end of the table. He sits slowly, and Tupelo finally allows himself to look up. Jesse’s gazing at him without blinking, eyes taking in every single inch of Tupelo.

            Jesus—he looks so good. Somehow he even looks good in that preacher outfit. The metal collar clips are driving Tupelo insane. He thinks that in another life, he’d grab Jesse by that collar, rubbing his thumbs over the clips as he yanked him down to slip his tongue past those pink lips. Him all in black, scruff on his cheeks from where he hasn’t bothered to trim his goatee—to Tupelo, he looks like walking sex.

            Holding onto the edge of the table, Jesse says, “I thought you were a dream.”

            Shrugging at that, Tupelo pushes the pack of cigarettes and the lighter as far as he can down the table. “Don’t worry. Give me ten minutes and I will be.”

            Something inside is shaking. Being this close to Jesse—there’s something about it he can’t explain. This man was—will always be—his everything. But life doesn’t work out like that.

            “I don’t understand,” Jesse says faintly.

            “I didn’t figure you would, and I don’t expect you to now. I just came by to tell you something, and then I’m gone again.” He crosses his legs at the knees, leaning back in his rickety old chair that matches the table. Tupelo clears his throat, unsure of whether to make small talk, or tell Jesse he might be in danger and then hit the road. He does neither. “Figured you for a lot of things, but _this_ —“ He gestures to Jesse. “This is ridiculous.”

            Tilting his head towards him, Jesse says incredulously, “I beg your pardon?”

            “A preacher? Seriously? I fucked you up that bad that you not only ran back to Annville, but you’re boring the town’s finest for an hour each Sunday, pretending to be righteous? That was unexpected, let me tell you what.”

            Those pretty brown eyes of his blink a few times, then Jesse says, “Unexpected.” He leans forward. “Unexpected?”

            With another shrug, Tupelo murmurs, “Mm hmm.”

            Jaw dropping, Jesse points to himself. “This? This makes sense.” He motions at Tupelo. “Tell me how the hell _that_ makes sense.”

            “Don’t need to explain anything about this to you. You wouldn’t get it anyway.”

            “Wouldn’t—five years. Five god _damn_ years, and you show up now, looking like this, and you have the nerve—to tell me you don’t owe me an explanation?”

            “I’m a man. I look like a man. There’s your explanation. You want more than that, go consult the internet, if that piece of shit I see back there on the desk can connect to it. Seriously, Jesse, that thing run on gas or you got to crank it first?”

            Shaking his head, eyes squeezing shut, Jesse says, “What the hell do you mean, you’re a man?”

            “Look at the hair on my face. Listen to the sound of my voice. Take a good close look at how I clearly have no tits. Male. Man. Guy. It’s sure as hell no weirder than you walking around wearing a white collar.”

            Jesse spreads his hands. He looks almost numb, he’s so taken aback. Tupelo just wants to run, but right now, he’s worried that if he did the bastard would come after him. So he has to ride this out. “I sincerely do not know what to say to you, Tulip—“

            “Tupelo,” he snaps. He points his cigarette at Jesse, glaring at him. “That’s your only warning. My name is Tupelo. You get it wrong again, and I’ll put this out on your face. I been beating your ass since we were kids, and now I’ve got testosterone in my veins. See if I can’t beat you like a red headed step child.”

            He angrily puts the cigarette to his mouth, sucking it down to the butt. Crushing it out into the ashtray, he wraps his arms around himself, looking out at the pale blue sky. He wants to be on the road. He wants to go as far and as fast as he can, away from all this.

            After a moment, Jesse says, “This is why you left me.”         

            “Of course this is why I left you,” Tupelo mutters. He brushes his curls off his forehead. Keeping his eyes on the window, he changes the subject. “Only reason I’m here is because I hit some trouble, and it might blow back on you. Wanted to make sure it didn’t.”

            “What kind of trouble?”

            “Did a job. Pissed off two guys. I’ve still got their merchandise, but they figured out I was working through Dany—“

            Jesse snaps, “Dany?” The anger in his voice is enough to draw Tupelo’s attention. His brow has furrowed, face going hard. There’s the man Tupelo knew. “You’re telling me you’re working for Dany.”

            “Why’s that news? I’ve been working for her since we were kids.”

            Right hand curling into a fist, Jesse growls, “Dany, who I call every year on your birthday and Christmas, asking if she’s seen you. Every time telling me she’s got no clue where you’ve gone.”

            Tupelo pauses, then puffs out a sigh. “I was not aware of that.”

            “And if you had been?”

            “I’d’ve told her to say I was dead.” Jesse looks livid, but Tupelo’s not swayed. “Closest to the truth there is. You loved a woman who didn’t exist. It was always just me, only I had to hide to make my way in the world. Until the day came that I stopped hiding.” He stretches. “That’s not what I’m here to talk to you about. I’m here to—“

            “Oh, we are going to talk—“

            “No,” Tupelo says firmly. “We ain’t. I’m here to tell you that these two assholes broke Dany’s arm to find out where I lived, tore my place apart, and took some things. My computer, my phone—and a picture I had of you.”

            Confused, Jesse says, “What are you worrying about a picture for—“

            “It had your name on the back,” Tupelo says, pained. “It had ‘until the end of the world’ on the back. They know you’re important to me, and these are the kind of people who don’t care who they hurt to find me. So I’m here, telling you that you need to look out for two men. I don’t know what the one looks like—“

            “Now hold on—“

            Talking over him, Tupelo continues, “One’s white, about half a foot taller than me, works out so he thinks he’s tough, but he’s not. Brown hair, good teeth. Name’s Brian Evans. The other fella, I got no idea what he looks like. He is really upset that I broke Brian’s nose.”

            “Why’d you break Brian’s nose?”

            “Because he called me a tranny, and he was about a breath away from calling me a tranny nigger, so I whupped him. _Then_ I stole from him.” Tupelo hisses out a disgruntled breath. “My only regret is that I didn’t kill the bastard right then and there. Probably would have saved me a lot of trouble.”

            “Did they hurt you?”

            “Why the hell does everyone keep asking that? Do I not look like I can take care of myself?” Tupelo scowls at Jesse before he can reply. “Just because I can colour coordinate instead of spending every day in basic black does not mean I can’t handle myself. There’s one broken nosed bastard out there who knows that for damn sure.” Shifting uncomfortably, Tupelo admits, “Problem is his boyfriend’s not too happy about that, or me stealing from them. So that’s what’s happening. Two guys from Austin, maybe coming for you. Keep your eyes peeled for the next two weeks or so until it blows over. Don’t die.” He pushes himself back from the table. “And that’s all I came to tell you.”

            “Bull _shit_ it is,” Jesse says loudly. “You’re not going anywhere.”

            “Why wouldn’t I?” Tupelo snaps. “Why? Tell me. Is it because ‘until the end of the world,’ because if so I think that would be a little disingenuous. Should I stay because you still love me?”

            And there it is. A lifetime of cringing at the thought of this moment, and it’s come. In a way, Tupelo’s glad he’s as old as he is. If this had happened when he was younger, it would have killed him.

            “There,” Tupelo says softly.

            Perplexed, Jesse says, “There what?”

            Tupelo crosses his arms on the table, leaning over them. “There’s why I left. The look on your face.” He feels like the front of him has been sliced off, like he’s bared all the way down to the muscles, and maybe even deeper. “All my life, hiding myself away, pretending to be what you wanted, so I’d never, ever have to see that look on your face. You know what that look is, Jesse? Disgust. I saw you do all manner of terrible, near unforgivable acts over the course of all our years together. But to other people. Never to me. Not ever to me. And that was so special. That was like a little light I carried inside myself my whole life, because as bad as shit ever was, as bad as it ever could be, I had you, and you _loved_ me. You’d never turn your back on me. Only I was always pretending, and then I couldn’t anymore, and I left so that you couldn’t take that special thing away from me. I left so I’d never, ever have to see that look on your face. Like I’m a thing, and you’re above me, and what I am is unfathomable to you, like I’m nothing and the thought of me _disgusts_ you.” Getting to his feet, Tupelo says, “ _That’s_ why I left. Thanks for proving me right.”

            He pushes in the chair, and heads towards the door. Turning in his seat, Jesse says, “Tu—Tupelo—“

            Hearing his name coming from Jesse’s mouth is more than he can bear. It’s _his_ name, the name he chose, and that’s important in a way that most people would never understand.

            Stopping, Tupelo bends down and looks Jesse in the eyes. Those beautiful light brown eyes that haven’t changed, no matter what. “You don’t need to love me back, because that’s not a condition of me loving you until the end of the world. That’s set in stone. It’s written on my bones, it’s the song in my blood, and you are the only, only, only one I will ever love. Watch out for the boys from Austin, and don’t do anything stupid. Because if you got hurt, or Christ forbid died, I’d put a fucking bullet in my head.”

            Darting forward, he takes Jesse’s head in his hands and kisses his soft, dark hair once, twice. He lets him go quickly, turning on his heel and going out the door before Jesse can say a word.

            Tupelo’s almost at the front of the church before he realizes he’s leaving. He’s in shock a little. This is the last time he’ll ever see Jesse. He never thought he’d have to do this again. The last time—the last time almost killed him. And now here he is, doing it again.

            He picks up his pace, having to curl his thin hands into fists. The nails dig into his flesh, and he wonders if he’ll cut them open. He has before, thinking about Jesse.

            Passing the sheriff, who’s reaming his son out by the squad car, Tupelo flinches when Eugene says, “You ‘kay, Misser Tup’lo?”

            It’s the only kindness he’ll see today, he knows that, and it hurts so badly he wants to scream. Instead, he puts on a tight little smile and calls over his shoulder, “Fine, Eugene. You take care, now.”

            Tupelo basically throws himself into his car, jamming the keys into the ignition. The engine’s on before he’s even closed the door. Dropping his foot down on the gas pedal, he does a wide circle, getting himself on the road, then screeches out of there.

            He glances at the hanging tree on his way out, and thinks, _good riddance_.

 

He doesn’t cry. Not like last time.

            Last time, when he left Jesse in Dallas, that night he curled up underneath a bed in a cheap hotel fifty miles away and sobbed until he thought he’d die. He cried and cried for heartbreak, not trying to be brave about it. Wrapped his whole body around a pillow, and soaked it through with tears. Wailed, hit his head against the floor, the whole nine yards.

            This time, Tupelo just grips the steering wheel, sucking in and blowing out steady breaths. Part of him is unsure if he’d remember how to breathe otherwise.

            His eyes are focused only on the road. He doesn’t look side to side, doesn’t check the rear-view. The only thing he looks at is the straight, flat line of the road. It’ll take him back to the 64. Then he’ll head west on the 62, get to El Paso, and then over the border. That’s as far as he’s thinking for now. Once he reaches New Mexico, it’s anyone’s guess.

            _He called me by my name_.

            Tupelo shakes his head, trying to rid himself of any romanticism over the encounter. Sure, Jesse called him by the right name, but he also looked at Tupelo like he’d grown a second head that maybe belonged to a water buffalo. He’d looked at him like he could _never_ love Tupelo like this.

            It wasn’t a surprise. Of course it wasn’t. But Tupelo hadn’t needed to see it. There was a reason he’d run away.

            “He’ll be fine,” he finds himself saying. “He’ll be a shitty preacher, and drink himself stupid, and marry that pretty white girl, and have nice looking kids, and he’ll be _fine_. He will. He’ll be fine. Not my problem. This is not my problem.”

            Hell no, it is not his problem. He has problems of his own. Like staying alive and trying to figure out how to eat. There is five hundred dollars in his bank account. That will only get him so far.

            Tupelo tries to remind himself of what’s important. Survival is important. He’s leaving Annville and everything in it behind. He’ll call Dany in a few days. See what the plan is, if there is one.

            _He called me by my name_.

            “Stop,” Tupelo whispers.

            He’s keeping his eyes on the road, but there’s a vehicle coming up so fast behind him that he can’t help but see it from his peripheral vision. Tupelo automatically pulls to the right a little to let them pass, pleading with himself to let this go. He’s an adult. He needs to be able to let this go. He can’t pine until he dies. Or if he does, he needs to wait until he’s got whiskey.

            The guy behind him lays on the horn, and Tupelo grimaces. “What the fuck,” he mutters, looking up at the rear-view.

            _You gotta be kidding me._

Silvery blue Ford, 1977 F-250. Restored, because you sure as hell didn’t see that colour come off the assembly line.

            Tupelo shakes his head, horrified. “No,” he moans. “No, no, no.”

            Jesse’s almost on his tailgate, still honking his horn. He veers to the left, laying on the gas to come alongside Tupelo. Looking up, Tupelo can just see him behind the wheel. Jesse emphatically points to the side of the road. He mouths, ‘Pull over.’

            Miserable, wishing he had some kind of science fiction transporter that would drop him a thousand miles away, Tupelo slumps. He slows the car, then pulls off, sitting at a horizontal, before braking.

            The pickup stops in front of him, then carefully backs up so that it’s almost bumper to bumper with the Chevelle.

            Tupelo’s still shaking his head. “Don’t do this,” he pleads, as Jesse hops out of the truck. “Don’t.”

            Jesse strides over to the car, looking as handsome as he ever has, a streak of darkness in this colourless landscape. He stands outside Tupelo’s door with his hands on his hips. Expectant. Like Tupelo’s attention is his right.

            Unfortunately, the bastard might be correct.

            Tupelo raises his shoulders. “What?”

            “Where do you get off, showing up, telling me you’re in trouble, then thinking I just won’t give a shit?”

            “Excuse me?”

            “Look—“ Jesse lifts his fingers off his hips a little. “I haven’t the slightest clue what’s going on with—how you look or your name or any of it. And if that’s just because I’m ignorant and you don’t want to explain it to me, so be it. But you must have been hit in the head to think I’d let you roll out of here, knowing you were in trouble.”

            “I can take care of myself,” Tupelo says. He’s a bit indignant. He doesn’t need saving.

            Lifting his brows, Jesse replies, “Yeah, no shit. You’ve clearly been doing that for five years. Five years of me not hearing a god damn word from you, by the way, half out of my mind. Now, if there are people after you, you’re gonna turn around and come back with me, and you’ll stay there until we know things have blown over.”

            Tupelo thinks he must look as shocked as Jesse did this morning when he walked into the church. It takes him a few seconds to say, flabbergasted, “You want me—to come _back_ to Annville?”

            “Least I know you’ll be safe there,” Jesse says stubbornly.

            He barks so hard that it hurts his throat. “Safe?” Tupelo protests. “In _Annville_? Do I _look_ like I’m a person who would be safe in Annville? Jesse Custer, I’m a queer, black transman, and I don’t think much before I kick someone in the balls. Annville is about as safe for me as just going back to Austin and putting a neon sign on my head that says, ‘here I am, put a bullet in my face.’”

            Unyielding, Jesse says, “If you come back, we can take on whatever comes.”

            Helpless, Tupelo says, “Jesse. Are you out of your mind? I can’t go back there.”

            For a second, Jesse stands there, looking off into the distance, uncomfortably shifting from foot to foot. Then he sips in a breath, and crouches next to the car, so he’s looking up at Tupelo.

            The softness of his voice hurts. Hurts like a thousand paper cuts all at once. “Listen to me,” Jesse murmurs. He swallows, looking Tupelo over, and when he does, Tupelo feels naked. Like Jesse sees everything, past all his walls. “I do not understand what’s going on with you. I don’t. But that doesn’t mean—there are some things it could mean, and some it sure as hell doesn’t, and no matter what—even if you’re not—“ He clears his throat. “If you’re not my girl, you’re still my best friend. Always have been. That doesn’t change. Does it?”

            Tupelo can’t respond at first. Then he realizes that no matter what, he won’t be able to speak. So he just gives his head a shake, staring at Jesse.

            “I’ve spent five years—worried sick. And you must be insane if you tell me two men are on your tail so hard that they might even come after me, and then think that I’m just going to be fine with you driving away. Like I don’t care. That dog don’t hunt, and you know it. You know me.”

            “It’s been a long time,” Tupelo whispers.

            “Yes it has. And it’s been the blink of an eye.”

            Tupelo can’t believe he’s considering it. Looking down into his lap, Tupelo says flatly, “It’s a terrible idea. I need to stay on the road until this blows over.”

            “You could do that. Sure you could. Or you could come back and be where someone has your back.”

            “Jesse, if you tell me that person is Jesus, I will slap you, I swear to God.”

            Jesse drops his head, and squints up at Tupelo with a grin. The bastard’s breathtaking when he does that. Tupelo would never admit it, but he goes a bit faint at the sight. “The person would be me. And I’d have guns.”

            “I’ve got guns. And I can take care of myself.” Tupelo shrugs with his whole body, uncomfortable in his own skin. “I know you ain’t suggesting I stay at the church.”

            “Why not?” Jesse says, and Tupelo snorts. “You could keep Cassidy company.”

            “Who the hell’s Cassidy?”

            “Drifter. Technically, he’s our handyman. Unofficially, he’s a crazy Irishman who drinks like a fish and doesn’t come out in the day time because he thinks he’s a vampire.” Jesse shrugs. “I’ve already collected one stray. Another won’t be a stretch.”

            Popping out his cheek, Tupelo says, “Don’t think wearing that collar doesn’t mean I won’t punch you.”

            Gesturing to his split lip, Jesse counters, “Does it look like it’s stopped anyone else?”

            Tupelo looks away with a little smile. The smile fades quickly. “This is…it’s a really bad idea, Jesse.”

            “Doesn’t have to be more than a few days. You don’t want to stay at the church, that’s fine. Your uncle’s still alive, by the way. You could stay there. I’m sure Mosie would have you.”

            Rubbing at his brow, Tupelo asks, “Why’re you so set on having me come back?”

            Jesse cringes a little, then shrugs. “I missed you. You don’t get to show up for five minutes and then take off again forever. Doesn’t seem right.”

            “Yeah, I forgot about conforming to Jesse ‘The Almighty’ Custer’s overinflated sense of right and wrong, and everything being _fair_ —“

            “Come home,” Jesse says, and Tupelo falls silent. “Come home where we can keep you safe.”

            Tupelo shrugs. “Annville ain’t home,” he says softly. “Wasn’t for you either.”

            “Well. That’s another story for another day. You want to argue with me about it, you can do it tonight at dinner.”

            Tupelo starts running his hands through his hair. He doesn’t know what to do. Reckless, yes he is. Weak and stupid, he is not. Hiding in his hometown? The definition of stupid. Hanging around Jesse Custer, pining after him like a fool? The weakest thing he’s ever even imagined.

            Only he wants to. And badly.

            He pushes his hair back, and mutters, “Fuck.”

            Bouncing on his haunches, Jesse says, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

            “Yes,” Tupelo says petulantly. He shakes his head, turning the engine back on. “If only you were this convincing at the pulpit, people might not look bored out of their goddamn minds.”

            Jesse pushes himself up, saying, “Glad to see you haven’t mellowed.”

            As he walks back to the truck, Tupelo leans out the window and hollers, “Well, one of us had to find his balls.”

            Jesse gives him a smirk, then climbs back into the truck.

            Tupelo thinks, _this is a terrible, terrible decision_.

            But he’s made it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this is heaven, ah'm bailin out!  
> 'Mutiny in Heaven' Mutiny! (1983)
> 
> Also, 'My hypocrisy goes only so far' is from Tombstone (1993), which might be the most quotable western in history.  
> If you're out there, I would certainly appreciate you letting me know it. Thanks, all.


	5. Bringing me to my knees

Tupelo pushes the legs off the end of the couch so he can sit down. Walter doesn’t notice, passed out cold and snoring louder and more constant than a lawn mower. Tupelo puts his bare feet up on the trash covered coffee table, and looks at the picture in his hands.

            His mother was beautiful. The picture’s from when she was around Tupelo’s age, before he was born. She would have been working at Mosie’s a long time by then. Tupelo wants to grin, just looking at her. All the girls at Mosie’s, even the Latinas, are pale. His mother was _black_ , and did nothing to hide it. Afro and everything. Big smile lines curving into her cheeks. Wide mouth full of almost too many teeth. The smile of a predator. Tupelo’s got that smile, even if his mouth isn’t as wide.

            He runs his fingers around her face. It’s been so long since he’s seen her face. He’s had to rely on memories. That run in with Frankie in Albuquerque ended with Tupelo losing all his pictures save the one of him and Jesse. Tupelo wouldn’t even know where to find a picture of his father. Maybe one of the guys who’ve been working at QM&P might have something. He doesn’t know how inclined they’d be to pass anything over. He might have to be persuasive.

            Walter grumbles in his sleep, readjusting, and Tupelo mindlessly pats his thigh, hoping to keep him under. Walter’s a disaster, and always has been. Tupelo has no memory of the man ever being sober, and can probably count on two hands the number of times he’s seen him conscious. He’s always been an old, sad man, even before his hair went white. Never did Tupelo a bit of good, except to have this house for him to hide in when things were especially awful.

            “She would have been past sixty now,” Tupelo says. “You ever think of that, Walter? What do you think she would have done? If it hadn’t been for me. Think she and my daddy would have gotten married? Think we would have all been happy?”

            Walter belches, and Tupelo glances over to make sure he’s not going to puke in his sleep.

            Once he’s sure, he goes back to studying the photo of his beautiful mother. She looks like a queen.

            And Tupelo’s not a moron. Yes, she was a prostitute, and had been since she was teenager, but it’s not like there’s anything wrong with that. She was tough like he always has been, only she went and got herself pregnant at fourteen. Family threw her out, and the baby died two days after he was born. No one would take her in except Mosie. Mosie was always good about strays. Not that it was from the goodness of her heart. His mother started by cleaning the house, but by fifteen she was one of the girls. Mosie tried to trick out Tupelo when he was a teenager, but he wasn’t having any of it. There were no hard feelings, and he doesn’t think badly of his mother for making a different decision. She didn’t have anyone. Tupelo had Jesse.

            His mother was a whore, and his daddy was a client, and it should have been a redneck love story. Only that’s not how life works.

            Tupelo turns the picture frame over, opening it up and removing the photo of his mother. On the back is written ‘Rose O’Hare, 1988.’ An Irish name if ever there was one. That’s what his daddy always said. Even though his mother had chosen his name before he was born—Priscilla Jean—his daddy took to calling him Tulip, so he’d have a name more like his mama’s. Always calling him Little Petal too, even when Jake was taking him out to shoot for the first time.

Tupelo tosses the empty frame onto the table with the other detritus, bringing his mother’s face close to his. “Fine mess I got myself in this time, huh, Mama,” Tupelo murmurs.

            He presses the picture to his chest and leans back into the threadbare couch. The house smells of sickness. Like someone died, only they don’t know it yet.

            He’s supposed to be back at the church in a half hour. He thinks about changing, but that would imply that he’s making an effort. Like he cares about making a good impression for Jesse.

            Tupelo can’t risk that. Can’t risk losing himself here.

            He sighs. “A real fine mess, Mama.”

 

He walks up to the back of the church with a bottle of Ratwater Whiskey in hand. It’s still light out, but the sky is clouded over. Tupelo’s never much cared for summers. The world feels wrong. There’s not enough night.

            He’s stolen the whiskey from Walter. The man only drinks beer. Tupelo has no idea why he had a full bottle of whiskey, but he’s not going to question it. He has to bring something, and they only sell beer and wine on Sundays. He needed something stronger.

            There are three vehicles parked out back. Jesse’s truck, a beat to hell van with ‘All Saints Congregational’ in faded letters on the side—and a minivan. Tupelo lingers by it, glancing inside. Toys on the floor. Kids’ seats.

            Ready-made family. That’s fucking fantastic.

            Swallowing down his anger, Tupelo heads to the kitchen door. He taps on it a few times, before opening it up.

            Everybody just stops and he looks at them and they look at him a moment.

            There’s Jesse, setting the table. There’s the pianist, still in her Sunday finest, looking at Tupelo all doe eyed and innocent, pulling something from the stove. Then there’s a skinny drink of water with dark pouches under his eyes, leaning against the kitchen wall with a beer in hand.

            “Evening,” Tupelo says, closing the door after himself.

            “Evening,” Jesse says.

            Lifting the bottle, Tupelo takes it to the counter. “Gotta warn you, I stole this from Walter, so it could be that he pissed in it. But after having a look around, I know it’s your brand.”

            With a roll of the eyes, Jesse nods to his right. “This here is Emily.”

            The woman wipes her hand on her skirt, then holds it out. Tupelo takes it, unimpressed, and says, “I’m Tupelo.”

            “Pleasure to meet you,” says Emily. Those babe in the woods eyes are raw in their study of him, not knowing how to be anything else. She wants to know how much of a threat he is. Tupelo wants to tell her that in the old days, he would have eaten her alive. These days, the war’s already done, and Tupelo lost.

            “And this is Cassidy.”

            Tupelo reaches across the table, hand taken in a strong, bony grip. The man’s attractive—in that way Tupelo loves. The way that says _I’ve done a lot of terrible things and we should do some more of those things together_.

            But the man speaks, in a rush of words that lilt and tumble over one another, and Tupelo can only stare at him. “Beg pardon?”

            With a frown, Cassidy speaks again.

            “I—literally have no idea what you’re saying.” Pulling back his hand, Tupelo glances at Jesse. “You said he’s Irish? So what is that, Gaelic?” Cassidy goes off again, and Tupelo shakes his head at the man. “I swear to God, I do not understand a word that is coming out of your mouth. That boy who’s walking around with _no_ mouth makes more sense than you do.”

            Waving his arms, Cassidy natters at Jesse a moment, who shrugs. “I will admit, it took a minor period of adjustment to exactly grasp what Cassidy was trying to say.”

            This time when Cassidy speaks, Tupelo at least catches the words, “bloody traitor.”

            He automatically sits down at the side of the table closest to the window, where he knows he’ll be closest to Jesse and the exit. There’s a pause, and Tupelo’s unsure why.

            “I’ll just—“ Emily comes around the table, and switches the half full water glass away from in front of Tupelo, to the place nearest the door. Ah. She’s used to sitting at Jesse’s right hand. Of course she is.

            Cassidy speaks again to Tupelo. “Pal, you have got to _enunciate_ ,” Tupelo replies. Cassidy lifts his beer, wiggling it, and Tupelo nods. “Christ, yes.”

            He sees how Emily flinches, and kind of enjoys it. Cassidy gets him a Shiner Bock, which surprises Tupelo a little. He’s used to seeing Jesse around the cheapest, nastiest beer they could rustle up. Cassidy pops the top, and hands him the bottle, clinking his to Tupelo’s. Tupelo nods to him, and catches Cassidy’s appraising gaze.

            It’s not like Emily’s. It’s not asking how long before he clears out of town. It’s appreciative. Since his body is blocking Jesse’s view, Tupelo gives him a light wink. Cassidy gives him a sly grin that’s all incisors, then bounds around to the other side of the table, dropping into the opposite chair.

            “Don’t suppose you’ve changed so much that you’re a vegetarian,” Jesse says.

            “You’re Annville’s preacher. If that could happen, _anything_ could.” Tupelo has a sip of beer, exhaling in pleasure, then gives his head a shake. “But hell no, I am a carnivore.”

            They all get served up, a simple meal of pork chops and green beans and rolls. The rolls are home cooked. Tupelo doesn’t have to ask to know that Emily’s cooked it all. He’s watched Jesse set a stove on fire just by trying to boil hot dogs.

            For a really awkward minute, they eat in complete silence. Tupelo keeps his head down, nibbling at his roll so that he doesn’t have to speak.

            _Lord, let me count the ways in which this was a truly wretched idea_.

            Finally, Emily clears her throat, and says with a little smile, “So—Tupelo. What do you do?”

            “Career criminal,” Tupelo responds without skipping a beat. He reaches for his beer.

            “O-oh.” Emily laughs slightly, like she thinks he’s kidding. Tupelo glances at her, and she stops. She realizes he’s telling the truth.

            “That your van out back?” Tupelo asks.

            “My—oh. Yeah. Yeah, that’s mine.”

            “How many kids you got?”

            “Three.”

            “Mm.” Stabbing at his green beans, Tupelo looks across at Cassidy. “I hear you’re a vampire. How’s that working out for you?”

            And that’s good for about two minutes of incoherent blathering. Tupelo chews on his green beans, giving Cassidy a steady look as he talks and laughs and gestures with his hands. At one point, Cassidy even pounds on the table with his fists a few times.

            Then he settles back in his chair, crossing his arms, looking satisfied with whatever he’s said.

            “Oh, ayuh,” Tupelo says around a mouthful of food.

            Jesse snaps his fingers, looking at Tupelo. He rests an arm over the back of his chair, turned towards him in his seat. “Speaking of—your name.” Tupelo swallows, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. With a slight shake of the head, Jesse says, “Your name—like that song by that Australian fellow, looks like he’s a vampire.”

            Blushing, Tupelo picks up his beer. “Might have had something to do with it,” he admits.

            “Black rain come down.”

            The words send a shiver down Tupelo’s spine. In another life, this is the opportunity he’d take to jump on Jesse Custer, whether they were alone or had an audience. Instead, he nods. “Black rain come down,” he echoes.

            This time, he catches it when Cassidy says, “Nick Cave, like?”

            Putting his beer back on the table, Tupelo says, “Wasn’t the only thing. All kinds of reasons for it. Always been kind of a fanatic for storms, and there was the famous one there. There’s a John Lee Hooker song. That, and you know who was born in Tupelo.”

            Jesse makes a rueful face.

            Disbelieving, Tupelo says, “I know that Johnny Cash was born in Kingsland, Arkansas, but you can’t tell me who was born in Tupelo, Mississippi? How badly have you pickled your brain these last five years?”

            “Gimme a hint?”

            Tupelo sits back, thinking. Then he opens his mouth, and pitches his voice a touch higher than natural. In a clear alto, he sings slowly, “Shall I stay? Would it be a sin—“ He picks up his fork, thinking back ten years. “If I can’t help…falling in love with you?”

            The table’s quiet a moment, and Jesse says, “Elvis Aaron Presley. Born in Tupelo, Mississippi in 1932.”

            “There he is,” Tupelo says, lifting his beer in Jesse’s direction.  

            “Sounds a little different than the last time I heard you sing that.”

            “Yeah, well, last time I sang that, I think I was a soprano.” Tupelo realizes he’s forgotten his manners. He’s an awful person, impetuous and violent, but it’s no reason to be a monster. “Thank you for dinner. Everything’s real good,” he says to Emily, even if he hates her with the fire of a thousand suns.

            “I’m glad,” Emily says, even though she’s obviously anything but. Her face doesn’t hide anything, even if she thinks it does.

            Tupelo feels Jesse’s eyes on him, but he sure as hell doesn’t want to have a real conversation with him around his new girlfriend. So he says, “Cassidy—tell me how you got all the way to Annville from Ireland. Must be a hell of a story.”

            Cassidy perks up, and the words start burbling out of him like a river trying to burst its banks. Tupelo eats and ignores the eyes watching him.

 

He escapes as soon as he’s able. When dinner’s done and his weak offer to help with the dishes is waved off—Cassidy actually jumps up to do it, a strange combination of eagerness and looking like he’d kill you for a hit—Tupelo grabs the bottle of whiskey, says he needs to have a cigarette, and flees.

            He walks to his car, which he’s parked in the field. Climbing up onto the hood, Tupelo falls back against the windshield, watching the strange clouds. The sky’s a dangerous shade of yellow, the light fading. Could mean a tornado coming, but there’s no wind. Whatever the case, he means to be indoors back at his uncle’s in an hour or so.

            Well, depending on how much of the whiskey he consumes.

            Jesse follows him a few minutes later, and Tupelo’s glad and apprehensive. Glad because he doesn’t actually have any cigarettes. He never buys them for himself, just picks them up if someone else has them. And he’s not willing to believe that he’s in dire enough straits to down this bottle of whiskey by himself.

            Jesse walks up to the car with his thumbs through the loops of his black jeans. Shaking his head, Tupelo asks, “Why’re you still wearing that?”

            “Wearing what?”

            “The collar. The whole thing.”

            “This is what I wear,” Jesse replies, lifting himself onto the Chevelle. He lays back against the windshield, propping one foot on the hood. Tupelo’s a little worried his alligator skin cowboy boots might scratch the paint, but he doesn’t say anything.

            “What—you mean every day?”

            He reaches for the bottle, and Tupelo gives it to him. “Every day,” Jesse confirms, and twists off the cap. “Well, it was sealed, so I guess Walter didn’t piss in it.” He takes a few easy gulps before passing the bottle back.

            Concerned, Tupelo takes a swallow. It hits him like gasoline on fire, and he gags. “Christ on crutches—I forgot how Ratwater burns.”

            “Light weight,” Jesse says, taking the bottle back.

            “I’m no light weight. Just tells me how much of your time you’ve been drinking.”

            Jesse shrugs, unapologetic. “Everybody here drinks.”

            Tupelo can’t help himself. Not for another second. Wracked, he says, “Jesse, what the hell are you doing back here? What the hell are you doing to yourself?”

            And just like Tupelo knew he would, Jesse says, “Made a promise—“

            “It’s gonna kill you. Being here.”

            “It’s not that bad—“

            “Not that bad? Jesus, Jesse, first thing I saw when I came into town was you passed out in a ditch.” Tupelo wants to reach over, touch his face, beg him to just get up and run, but that’s not a thing he’s allowed anymore. “This place will kill you. Just like it’s done everyone else we ever cared about.”

            The passive bastard only shrugs again and takes another sip of whiskey. “Town needs a preacher. Needs saving.”

            “It needs to be razed to the ground. Like Ratwater before it.” Tupelo grabs the bottle from him, lifting it. “In a hundred years, there should be a whiskey called Annville, and people will say, ‘what the hell’s Annville’ and the only answer people will have is that it’s a shitty whiskey named for a place that was damned.” Tupelo hisses, picking at the label on the bottle. He shakes his head, scowling. “I knew you’d come back here. I didn’t want to believe it, but I know you, I knew you’d do it. Come back here with your tail between your legs. And it’s my fault, I know it’s my fault, and I’m sorry, but Jesus—I wish you hadn’t. I wish more than just about anything that you’d stayed away from this place.”

            After a moment, Jesse says, “If wishes were horses.”

            Tupelo snorts. “You’d be riding, you fucking horse thief.”

            Indignant, Jesse protests, “I am no horse thief—“

            “Oh, but it was for a good cause. Tell yourself that. They were going to turn those horses into glue or meat for the French, or something. Wasn’t that what it was?” Before Jesse can argue, Tupelo gives his head a shake. “Jesse Custer, I spent an entire night listening to you justify stealing those horses all because of some macho Texas white male bullshit code of honour. Do not think I can _ever_ forget how bored I was.”

            Sitting on that for a moment, Jesse says, “They _were_ going to kill those horses—“

            “Yep,” Tupelo says loudly. “I win.”

            Jesse lets out a soft laugh through his nose, then says, like he doesn’t quite understand, “You are so different. And you are so the same.”

            “Uh huh,” Tupelo says, unable to say much more.

            Jesse looks at him, brows drawn. “How long’s—this been going on?”

            With a sigh, Tupelo gazes up at the fading yellow sky. “If you have to ask me that, you’ll never understand.”

            “If you don’t even try, I never will.”

            Scratching at his scalp, Tupelo frowns. “Forever, Jesse. Answer’s forever.”

            Jesse reaches for the bottle, and Tupelo gives it to him. “You’re right. I don’t understand. So explain it to me.”

            Tired, just wanting to crawl under a blanket somewhere and forget that he ever headed west, Tupelo thinks about it a moment before answering.

            “When I was a little kid, I knew something was wrong. You know how—everything I liked, people thought it was weird, because little girls aren’t into things like that. My daddy, before he died, he was good about it. Taught me to hunt, fight, before he went and got himself shot. Treated me like his son, and that felt right. He was the only one who understood that I wasn’t—like everyone else. Him and you, I guess. You and me—two fuck ups, always something to prove. You didn’t treat me like I was a girl. I think I loved that about you from the day we met. You and me could…talk about football and cars and fights, and you didn’t treat me like I was this fragile thing. Grownups always shaking their heads, tsking because I wouldn’t wear a dress. Other kids calling me a freak, not inviting me to parties because of my parents, because I wasn’t like them—I didn’t mind that much. I didn’t mind other people. I just minded that something was wrong and I didn’t have a name for it.” Tupelo scowls. “Then your asshole daddy went and sent me off to foster care.”

            Displeased, Jesse says, “Now—come on. You know he—“

            Tupelo punches him hard enough in the shoulder that Jesse grunts. “You don’t defend him to me. I’ve told you before, I don’t give a damn what happened to him. He _wronged_ me.” Jesse flexes his arm a little, rubbing where Tupelo hit him. Tupelo kicks aside his boots, and plucks off his socks, tossing them off into the brittle grass. “You had your own hell to live after he was gone. We both of us got beat, but I doubt you had to sleep with a knife under your pillow because the man getting paid to take care of you kept trying to come in your room and stick his hands down your pants. Each time, me getting kicked out because I was difficult. Unladylike. The last one, Jesse—I never told you, but I damn near gave up and let him do what he wanted, because I was so sick of getting thrown from place to place. Tired of fighting. Thinking I deserved what I got because there was something wrong with me. Stupid fucking preachers saying this and that’s a sin, saying I was going to hell because this is just how I was born. I tried to be someone else. I tried to be Tulip, because that’s what everybody wanted from me. I wore the dresses, I put on the makeup, but that’s as far as I was willing to take it. Because I knew—I _knew_ , Jesse, that the problem wasn’t with me. It was with everyone else. At the end of the day, as much as I tried hating myself for being a freak, I hated myself more for not being honest. For letting everyone beat me down.”

            He leans away when Jesse sits up. “I’ve known you your whole life. Why didn’t you never say anything to me?”

            “Because I loved you, and I wanted you to love me back. You loved Tulip O’Hare. And I wore her as long as I could so I could keep you. I knew you wouldn’t love me like this. It’s not how you’re built. You’re as straight as they come, and add in all this God nonsense they’ve been pounding into your head since time began, and I didn’t have a hope of keeping you if I told the truth. So I was selfish. I lied to you. Let you believe Tulip was a person who existed. But she never did. It was only ever me, wearing a disguise. That’s what it felt like to me, Jesse. So you want to hate me, that’s fine. I can take that. Maybe a part of me wants that, seeing what you’re doing to yourself back here.”

            A few seconds pass, and Jesse says, “I don’t hate you—Tupelo. I wouldn’t know how.”

            Hissing, Tupelo says, “Don’t—don’t be nice. You are not a nice person. This preacher thing has your head all muddled. I don’t even know how to—“

            He takes a few gulps of Ratwater, to the point where his eyes water. Yanking the bottle away from his mouth, Tupelo leans over the side of the car, in case his dinner decides to come up.

            “You okay there, light weight?”

            “Fuck yourself, you drunk,” Tupelo says, shoving the bottle back into Jesse’s hands. He puts his arms over his eyes, trying to catch his breath.

            He hears Jesse take a gulp, then the man asks hesitantly, “So—if you’re a man, does that mean you like girls?”

            Arms flopping down, Tupelo exclaims, “How many goddamn times do I gotta say you’re the love of my life? No, just because I’m a man, it doesn’t mean I like girls. God knows I’ve slept with more of them than you have, but no, I want a man.”

            “What do you mean, you’ve slept with more woman than I have?”

            “Well, I’ve slept with four, and my guess is that after me, you had a drunken one night stand with the first girl you could find, then Emily got her claws into you.”

            “What’s Emily got to do with this?”

            “I was not born yesterday.”

            Jesse gazes at him, then cracks up. “You think me and Emily--?”

            “Oh please.”

            “No. No sir. She and I are not like that.”

            He looks so amused. _He doesn’t realize_. “Holy shit, you are a blind man.”

            “Blind about what?”

            “That she gets wet every time she looks at you.”

            Face screwing up, Jesse says, “There’s no call for that.”

            “Jesse. Trust me.” Tupelo points at the minivan parked out back. “Woman’s got three kids, and no wedding ring on, and she’s stuck around on a Sunday night to make you dinner? Guess what she’s doing tonight? Going home, pulling out the vibrator she keeps in her sock drawer, and picturing your pretty face.”

            “That is not the case,” Jesse argues, “and there’s no need to be vulgar. Emily’s a good woman.”

            “Yeah,” Tupelo says darkly, “a good woman you’re gonna marry.”

            “I am not.” Jesse takes a look at him, then laughs, “You’re jealous.”

            Tupelo juts out his jaw, looking towards the horizon. He could deny it, but Jesse’s known him long enough. He’d see right through it. “Of course I’m jealous,” he mutters. “The man I was supposed to spend the rest of my life with, doesn’t get to be mine because of a stupid quirk of biology. Instead, I gotta see him drink himself to death, but not before he legally binds himself to the most boring piece of white bread I ever seen in my life.”

            “You left _me_ ,” Jesse reminds him.

            “Yeah, before you could do the honours,” Tupelo retorts.

            Jesse taps the ring on his finger against the bottle. Then he asks, “So why Dallas? What happened?”

            Tupelo looks him over. The way he’s hunched over a little, looking down at the bottle. Trying to pretend that he doesn’t still feel the hurt. Tupelo knows it’s a lie. He’s hurting too, and will until the day he dies.

            Softly, Tupelo says, “Remember what we did the last night we were together?”

            Jesse nods. “Made love, watched the news, went to sleep.”

            He finally pulls out a pack of cigarettes, putting one between his lips. Watching the movements of his hands, Tupelo says, “There was a thing on the news. About someone like me. I’d tried for years…tell you the truth. Thinking that you’d love me no matter what. But we were laying there in bed, watching the news, and this thing comes on—not even the first story. Like the fifth or sixth. A guy like me. And you said some things. I got a little worried, tried to draw you out more on the topic. And I succeeded, much to my dismay. You sounded like the inbred homophobic transphobe you were born and raised to be, and I wasn’t so dumb to think I could ever change that. So after you were asleep, I went in the bathroom, and I put a gun in my mouth, and pulled the trigger.”

            Jesse turns to him, squinting. “You did _what_?”

            Tupelo shrugs. “I was so upset that I didn’t even look to see if the thing was loaded. It wasn’t.”

            Putting his head in his hands, Jesse mutters, “Jesus. Jesus Christ.”

            “I pulled the trigger a few more times just to be sure, but when I figured out there were no bullets, I decided the moment had passed. It’s not that I wanted to die. It’s that I didn’t want to live in a world where you looked at me like I was something to be ashamed of. Didn’t have to kill myself to do that. All I had to do was leave. So that’s what I did.” Tupelo shrugs, watching a bug go zipping by. “Thought about how tore up you’d be, but I figured if I’d actually gone through with killing myself, and you not knowing why, you might have followed me. And I sure as hell didn’t want that. Packed up my pictures, took some money and a gun, wrote you a note, and that was it. That’s what happened in Dallas.”

            He waits for Jesse to react. The preacher’s rubbing his hands over his face, lit cigarette stuck between his fingers. Tupelo wants to pluck it away, but he doesn’t think now’s a good time to touch Jesse.

            Finally, Jesse lowers his hands. His voice quiet, he says, “I am so mad at you.”

            “I know you are.”

            Jesse holds the cigarette out to him, and Tupelo takes it. Inhaling on it, he feels the singular content that comes along with mixing whiskey and cigarettes. He sets his tongue between his teeth and exhales a smoke ring.

            Laying back again, Jesse says, “You’re out of your mind, by the way. Emily thinks I’m a piss poor preacher and a drunk.”

            “So she’s got your number.”

            “Yeah, she’s got my number good. And yeah, the number’s three. You, and two drunk one night stands.”

            “I know you like breathing,” Tupelo says, passing back the cigarette, and it’s not bragging. It’s a mere truth.

            “How many men have there been?”

            He doesn’t want to answer. The women, it didn’t seem to count for as much, if only because they’re not what gets him off. A woman’s never made him come. When someone’s been inside him, though, it seems like more of a betrayal of the promises he made.

            “How many.”

            This time it’s not a question. It’s softly spoken, but Tupelo can hear the threat behind it.

            “Three,” he whispers.

            Neither of them say anything for a moment. Then Jesse asks, strained, “Any one of them…special?”

            “Of course not.” Tupelo bites his upper lip. “We’ve ruined each other in that regard, Jesse. I know you loved me, much as I love you. There’ll never be a man I love more than you. And there’ll never be a woman you’ll love more than the one you thought I was. It is a sad state of affairs indeed.”

            He closes his eyes, jumping as Jesse pounds a fist against the hood. Tupelo swallows, and wraps his arms around himself. He looks up at the canvas of clouds,

            Tupelo murmurs, “I can still get on the road and go. No reason I got to be here.”

            Jesse shakes his head once, mouth drawn down in a scowl. “Don’t be an idiot. You ain’t going anywhere.”

            “Why? Cause the preacher told me so?”

            “No, cause I told you so.”

            “Tell me it doesn’t hurt just to look at me. It hurts me, looking at you. Only I can’t stop myself. It is a bad, bad idea, me being here. You could live your pathetic life here, and forget me.”

            Jesse finishes off the cigarette in one long, concentrated drag, then crushes it out on the bottom of his boot. “I can’t forget you,” he says, flicking the butt into the grass. “I got you tattooed on my back.”

            With a shake of the head, Tupelo pushes himself off the side of the car. “You got Tulip tattooed on your back. And I ain’t her.”

            He pulls out his car keys, and Jesse says, “Now where do you think you’re going?”

            “Back to Walter’s. Get off my car.” His head is swimming a little. It’ll be fine, if he leaves the windows down.

            Jesse stays put. Lounging there like a model, all stubble and black clothes and looking like everything Tupelo has ever wanted to touch. “Can’t let you do that. You’ve been drinking.”

            Jaw dropping, Tupelo responds, “I am _not_ hearing this from a man who passed out on the road last night—“

            Before he can react, Jesse’s hopped off the hood and snatched the keys from his hand. Tupelo makes a grab for them, but his reactions are a bit clumsy. Jesse’s working his way towards a new liver, and Tupelo only drinks recreationally.

            Walking backwards, Jesse says, “Come on in and sleep on the couch. Can’t let you behind the wheel of a car until you’ve sobered up. Wouldn’t be Christian.” He gives Tupelo a little grin and turns, heading for the church.

            His hands going to his hips, Tupelo purses his mouth and gazes after him. God, Jesse always has to do everything the hard way. “I ain’t sleeping in there! What if that crazy Irishman comes downstairs and starts gnawing on my neck?”

            Jesse calls over his shoulders, “Don’t worry—we’ll rustle up a crucifix. I might know where to find one.”

            And despite himself, Tupelo smiles. He glances around, seeing the clouds darkening to the east. He grabs his boots and socks, and follows Jesse back to the church.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No God up in the sky  
> No Devil beneath the sea  
> Could do the job that you did  
> Of bringing me to my knees  
> 'Brompton Oratory' The Boatman's Call (1997)
> 
> And the Elvis song is 'Can't Help Falling in Love With You' from the Blue Hawaii soundtrack (1961).


	6. Trampled beneath their feet

Tupelo pulls the sunglasses down to the tip of his nose and says, “Lemme get this straight. Only place in town that makes donuts, and you’re telling me you only have old fashioned glazed?”

            The old woman behind the counter, face long since calcified into a scowl, merely says, “Uh huh.”

            It’s the catch all phrase in Texas. It’s ‘yes’ and ‘you bet’ and ‘you’re welcome’ and ‘I wish you’d go away but I’m too polite to say so.’ Tupelo sighs, which turns into a yawn, and shrugs. “Fine. A half dozen old fashioned glazed, please and thank you.”

            He turns and looks back at the near silent grocery store. They just opened, the sun piercing in through the windows. Whoever runs the place is dumb as hell, and has the shades pulled to the top. The racks of candy bars are probably puddling in their wrappers. The shelves are dusty. He sees packages of instant noodles, the letters that you put up on signs, biscuit mix, vanilla extract. Tupelo shakes his head, trying to stave off the low grade headache paining him.

            He had an uneasy night sleeping on the couch. Every time he started to fall asleep, he’d hear footsteps upstairs and he’d startle awake. He felt awful itchy without his gun, but Jesse had his keys hidden somewhere, and the gun was back in the car.

            When he woke up, a little past seven, Tupelo did the next best thing. He grabbed the keys to Jesse’s pickup and took off for town. He snagged the sunglasses off the visor. They look good on him.

            The old woman holds out the box, saying, “Pay at the till,” and Tupelo just says, “Uh huh.”

 

He’s driving down the street five minutes later, open box on the seat next to him, a mouthful of stale donut sticking to his teeth. They probably made the donuts around the time of his conception. The town is starting to liven a little, mostly kids leaving the house on their way to school.

            Annville has not changed. Not in fifteen years. The only difference Tupelo can discernibly find is that they’ve just changed the school mascot from the Screamin’ Savage to Pedro the Prairie Dog. He sees ‘Save the Savage’ signs stuck in half the lawns and wants to puke. Racist assholes. It’s for the best that they’re stuck out here, where they can become so inbred that their descendants eventually just die out from the genetic abnormalities.

            Not a single home has been built since he left. There are a few new trailers, but nothing new that’s permanent. Tupelo drives around the town, up and down the streets, looking and finding nothing but the past on every corner.

            It’s depressing as hell.

            He comes around the corner of 7th, and stops the truck. Across the street, a group of boys are playing piggy in the middle, throwing a backpack over the head of one poor unfortunate soul. The boy is flailing and pleading with them. Eugene.

            God, kids suck.

            Tupelo lets out a sigh, tossing the rest of his half eaten donut into the box. “All right, preacher,” he says, brushing off his hands. “How much of a changed man are you?”

            Without even looking, he reaches under the seat. He fingers almost immediately find the barrel.

            “Not that much,” Tupelo finishes, and pulls out the gun.

            It’s a Smith and Wesson revolver from the ‘70s. Jesse is such a cliché. Tupelo checks to see if it’s loaded—it is—then pops the cylinder back in. Setting the gun in his lap, he unparks the truck, and lays his foot on the gas.

            He crosses the distance in a manner of seconds, truck jumping up onto the curb. The boys, who’ve shoved Eugene to the ground, all scatter back with wide eyes. Slamming his foot on the brakes, Tupelo points the revolver at the tallest one of the bullies and says, “Any of you touch him again, I’ll find you and shoot you in your _tits_.” Raising his voice, he hollers, “Get on, now!”

            They turn and flee.

            Lowering the gun, Tupelo hooks his arm over the door and says conversationally, “Hey, Eugene. You want a ride to school?”

            The boy sits there a moment, stunned. Then he says, “Tha’ the preacher’s t’uck?”

            “Yes it is.”

            “You—di’nt steal it, didju?”

            “No, Eugene. Jesse’s an old friend. I’m staying at the church. So, son? You want a ride to school or not?”

            Gathering his bag, Eugene slowly pushes himself up. “Yeth please,” he says, and sucks back his spit.

            Tupelo waits for him to climb up into the vehicle. The boy is almost painfully respectful, setting the backpack between his feet, and gingerly closing the door after himself. He puts his seatbelt on, and sits with his hands on his thighs, looking at Tupelo expectantly. The kid is dressed like someone from another era. Ironed checkered shirt, neatly tucked into clean chinos. Makes Tupelo feel even more unshowered and his clothes even dirtier.

            He _really_ wants his car back.

            He sees Eugene looking at his lap, or rather the gun sitting in it, and says, “We’ll just keep that there in case we come across any more bad guys.” Tupelo puts the truck into reverse, dislodging them from the curb, then pulls them back onto the street.

            “You—di’nt have to—do that.”

            “I don’t much like bullies. Probably because I was one.”

            “It’th—“ Eugene swallows hard. “It’s okay. I don’t mind them.”

            The way he says it makes Tupelo glance over. “What’d you do to deserve that kind of treatment?”

            Eugene’s silent a long moment. Then he rasps softly, “Somethin’ terr’ble.”

            He sounds so forlorn that Tupelo reaches over, giving his arm a pat. “Don’t take it too hard, honey. We all of us have a few of those in us. Doesn’t mean you have to be a martyr.” They come up on the boys who were shoving Eugene around, and Tupelo shouts out the window, “In your _TITS_!”

            They panic and run in the opposite direction. He sits back with a chuckle.

            But Eugene’s frowning, and Tupelo has to wonder if maybe he didn’t just make things worse for the kid. He remembers high school. Enough that he knows he’d like to forget it.

            “Coul—you pleath put—the gun away?”

            “Sure.” Tupelo slips it back under the seat. “Don’t like guns?”

            “No.”

            Glancing at him, Tupelo asks, “That what happened to you? You get shot?”

            Eugene doesn’t say anything. He just looks down into his lap.

            “Ah, none of my business. Hey, do you want a donut? I’ve got plenty, and looks like you could use a donut. I’ll warn you, they’re awful, but it’s the best I can do.”

            “Oh—no. Than’ you.”

            “Come on now. Otherwise I’ll be eating them all myself, and you’ll be forcing me to commit the sin of gluttony. Wouldn’t want that, would you?”

            Eugene’s face looks pinched. More than usual. Hesitantly, he gestures to his lipless circle of a mouth. “I can’—uh—“

            Tupelo could smack himself. “Oh shit. You can’t chew. I’m sorry, Eugene, I’m an asshole.”

            “No! No, I—I’m sorry—“

            “Don’t you be sorry. I was inconsiderate. So I have to be sorry. Do you accept my apology?”

            After a moment of looking dumbstruck, Eugene nods once, his eyes on Tupelo. “Yes. I accep’.”

            “Good. Thank you.” Tupelo leans towards him, and says, “I feel better.” He casts Eugene a smile, and the boy smiles back around the eyes. Man, this kid has got a hard, _hard_ row to hoe. Sitting back, Tupelo pats his hands on the steering wheel. “Eugene Root, huh?”

            “Yessir.”

            “I remember the night you were born.”

            “You—you do?”

            “Mm hmm.” Tupelo passes his uncle’s place. Walter’s lying face down on the front steps, missing his pants. With a shake of the head, Tupelo keeps his eyes to the road. “I was with your daddy when you were born.”

            Eugene says incredulously, “You were?”

            “I was indeed. I was a little older than you are now. And your daddy and I had a few run ins. By that night, I think he’d arrested me two other times. That time, he picked me up for shoplifting a lighter from the gas station. So I was sitting there in a jail cell, just me and him, when he got the call that your mama had gone into labour. He was the only deputy on that night for fifty miles, and he had a prisoner at the station. He couldn’t leave. And I was saying to him, it’s just a lighter. Let me out and go see your damn kid be born. But your daddy’s stubborn. And an hour later, he got another call. Saying you had already popped out. Doctor said it was the fastest, easiest labour he’d ever seen. That’s what your daddy told me. Then he let me out of the cell, tossed the paperwork, so he could go to the hospital and see you.” Tupelo reaches over, nudging him with a fist. “So you don’t know me, but I know you.” Getting a little darker, Tupelo says, “And maybe he’s occasionally a real son of a bitch, but I saw him the night you were born. He loved you before he ever saw you.”

            “He lov’th me. I know he does.”

            “Got a funny way of showing it. Not letting you come into the church.”

            “I make people—“ Eugene gulps in air. “Uncom’terble.”

            “You believe in God, Eugene?”

            “Yessir.”

            “Then go into the church, and don’t worry about any of them. God doesn’t care about what’s on the outside. Just what’s in.” He says it without meaning a word. Tupelo doesn’t believe in God. He believes in the sun rising and setting. At least that’s provable, and it doesn’t require he hate himself.

            After a moment, Eugene says, “Tha’s wha’ I’m afraid of.”

            Tupelo looks at him, but they’re coming up to the school. “Well, young man, I guess that took a few minutes off your trip. Anyone asks you if I pointed a gun at some teenagers, you be sure to tell them no.”

            “Yessir,” Eugene says, slipping out of the vehicle. He puts his backpack over both arms, then closes the door. “Than’ you very much—for the ride.”

            “Any time, Eugene. Have a good day at school.”

            Eugene steps back, but he doesn’t move any further than that. He simply looks at Tupelo with wide, forlorn eyes.

            Raising his brows, Tupelo says, “Something else I can do for you?”

            Just like that, Eugene waves him off, smiling. “No. Bye!” He turns and walks away.

            Tupelo watches him go. Poor fucking kid. In Annville, of all places.

            It’s a hell of a place to be different.

 

He pulls up to the front of the church, finding Jesse on the front steps. He’s smoking, and there’s no missing the relief on his face that Tupelo hasn’t stolen his truck.

            Lifting the box, Tupelo says, “I thought I’d get donuts. I forgot that this is the end of civilization, and to ask for a decent donut is like expecting Christ to return.”

            “I won’t complain.”

            Tupelo holds the box down to him, but when Jesse reaches out, he lifts the box out of range. “My car keys.”

            “My _truck_ keys _._ ”

            With a roll of the eyes, Tupelo tosses the keys onto the step. Jesse tugs his keys out from the pocket of his tight black jeans. He’s not wearing the black coat today, just the shirt sleeved black button up and that stupid collar. Still has those gorgeous collar clips on, though.

            Tupelo takes his keys, then offers him the box. Jesse selects a donut, and has a bite. The fact that he doesn’t spit it right out tells him how troublesome the situation is. The man has clearly given up on life.

            “You get up to any trouble?” Jesse asks, between bites of his donut and drags on his cigarette.

            Shrugging, Tupelo answers, “Pointed a gun at a couple little shitheads hassling Eugene Root, then gave the kid a ride to school.”

            Choking slightly, Jesse swallows, and says, “You what?”

            Kicking at a rock, Tupelo says, “That revolver you got under the seat. Pointed it at some kids, then had a talk with Eugene.”

            Dropping his hands on his lap, Jesse says in disbelief, “What part of laying low is not a concept within your grasp?”

            Irritated, Tupelo counters, “I don’t lay low, I run.”

            “Don’t I know it.”

            Glaring at him, Tupelo says, “Don’t give me any lip, Jesse Custer. You don’t seem to be doing a hell of a lot by that boy. Upstanding, stick in your ass preacher that you’ve become, Sunday’s slave. Why’re you letting his daddy keep him out of church?”

            Jesse raises a brow. “I’m not keeping anyone from doing anything.”

            “Bullshit. Unlike every other person you bored the pants off of on Sunday, that kid actually wanted to be in there—and all of you acted like he was a leper. You _let_ people do that to him. What the hell kind of preacher are you?”

            Jesse scratches the side of his nose with his thumb. “Tupelo—do you know _why_ Eugene looks like that?”

            “I gathered he got shot.”

            Pushing himself to his feet, Jesse says, “That’s not exactly the whole story.” He turns and walks up into the church.

            Following him, Tupelo drops the donuts on one of the pews. He picks up a ragged old bible, flipping it over in his hands. “So what’s the whole story?” Jesse turns around. Seeing the bible in Tupelo’s hands, he tries to take it, but Tupelo holds it out of reach. “What? This poor sinner’s not allowed to browse your holy text?”

            With an unimpressed look, Jesse walks towards the front of the church. “You wanted to know about Eugene?”

            “Yeah, I want to know about Eugene.”

            Jesse picks up a few pieces of paper that he left on the pulpit, folding them. “You remember the Loaches?”

            Tupelo has to reach back. “Oldest boy got picked up pretty young for bestiality, didn’t he?”

            Sticking the papers in his pocket, Jesse shakes his head. “Why do you have to remember the worst about people?”

            “Because it’s usually the truest thing about them.” Tupelo sits down, second row from the front, so he can prop his feet up on the next pew.

            Jesse crosses his arms. “The Loaches’ middle one. Tracy. Beautiful girl. Real smart, real sweet. Everybody loved her. _Eugene_ loved her. So one day, he gets up the courage to confess his love, and you know what happens?”

            “She says she doesn’t even know who he is. Yeah, I remember prissy bitches like that from school. Think they’re better than everyone else.”

            With a frown, Jesse says, “From what I understand, she was as nice about it as she could be.”

            “Bullshit she was. Not if that boy went off and shot himself.”

            Jesse gives his head a shake. “Oh no. Didn’t happen like that.”

            “No?”

            “Nuh uh. Eugene shot _her_ in the head, then shot himself.”

            Tupelo’s eyes widen. “Jesus.”

            “Yeah.”

            “What’s he doing walking around, if he killed some girl?”

            “Because it’s worse than if he had killed her. He didn’t. Just blew half her head off. There’s just enough of her left to keep her breathing, but she’ll never speak or walk or even open her eyes again. That boy turned that girl into a vegetable.”

            Tupelo thinks about it, then says, “He must be a _terrible_ shot, if he shot her and himself in the head and didn’t kill either of them.”

            Jesse rolls his eyes, and glares at him in disbelief. Tupelo only shrugs. He’s not known for sentimentality, and he punched his fair share of Tracy Loaches in high school.

            “So that’s what it is. He shot some pretty white girl—blond probably—and his daddy got him off, since he’s the sheriff. But instead of just going off and doing his time, that boy has to spend every day getting judged by the righteous, up-with-Jesus crowd in Annville. Lord, it would have been better if he had done time.” Tupelo crosses his arms, tapping the bible against his hip. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

            “Wrong with me?”

            “That boy wants forgiveness. He’s probably the only one in this entire shit stain that actually means it, and the tone of your voice when you talk about him—it’s like he’s barely human.”

            “Now that ain’t fair—“

            “Fuck fair. I’m telling you the truth. You’ve spent so long in this damn church you’ve forgotten there’s even such a thing as the truth.” Tupelo sighs, looking around the dusty old place. “I never asked. How long have you actually been back here?”

            “Two years.”

            “Good grief. Well, at least you held out for three. I’ll give you that much.” Tupelo slouches lower, fixing Jesse with a gaze. “We didn’t talk about you much yesterday.”

            “Not much to say.”

            “No?” Tupelo narrows his eyes, and asks cautiously, “How’s your grandmother?”

            Without so much as flinching, Jesse replies, “Passed on.”

            “Mazel tov.”

            Jesse glances away.

            “And Jody?”

            There’s an old look. A slight raising of the lip, a brief dip of the head. Quick sniff. “He passed on too. All of Angelville is gone.”

            Just looking at him, Tupelo already knows the answer to the question he’s about to ask. “How’d that happen?”

            “Couldn’t say,” Jesse says steadily. “Wasn’t there.”

            He killed them both, and anyone else who got in his way. Tupelo gazes at him, but Jesse meets his eyes, closed off. “How long ago did they pass?”

            “About two and a half years.”

            Well, that makes sense. “And so you came back here.”

            “I was always going to come back here.”

            “Ugh.” Tupelo rests his head back against the pew, and nods towards him. “Well, go on then. Let me see you where you’re supposed to be, preacher.”

            Jesse frowns a moment, confused, but then he glances at the pulpit he’s leaning against, and grimaces. “Don’t be a jackass.”

            “No, you’re the one with a calling, ain’t you? What’s so bad about me seeing you back up behind there?”

            “You’re just going to make fun of me. I don’t need to stand for it.”

            “You’re so insecure in your faith that you can’t handle a little teasing?”

            “I don’t need to do a song and dance for you. I’m where I’m supposed to be.”

            “How do you know?”

            Patient, Jesse says, “I made a promise—“

            “A child made a promise under the threat of getting shot. I don’t know if that exactly counts, Jesse.”

            “Promises count. I meant it.”

            “And all those years we were gone from here, that was terrible? That was a horrible, terrible sin you’re ashamed of, and the whole time you should have been here struggling to bring these inbred racists to Jesus?”

            “Yes.”

            “Uh huh,” Tupelo says, not buying it for a second. “If you’re where you’re supposed to be, if you’re meant to be standing there preaching the good word, why are you trying to kill yourself?”

            Crease appearing between his brow, Jesse says, “What do you mean?”

            “I mean, a man who has that many empty bottle of Ratwater in his place is about a step behind my uncle. How many times you stood at that pedestal there drunk?”

            “Never,” Jesse says angrily, “and it’s a pulpit—“

            “It’s a pedestal, where the righteous man’s supposed to stand, offering God’s judgment on all us sinners. You, looking down on the rest of us. Only problem is, you know it’s bullshit, Sunday’s slave. You’re not near as delusional as your daddy was. You know _all_ this is a lie.”

            Jesse pauses before saying, “You don’t know a thing about my daddy.”

            “I know everything you told me, which I think is everything you know. And I have the benefit of clear eyes, and relative sobriety, which you do not. Your daddy, rest his soul, was an uptight, delusional megalomaniac who fucked you up almost as much as Jody did. No—I take it back. He _definitely_ fucked you up more than Jody did.”

            His hand clenches the side of the pulpit. Tupelo watches him, seeing how Jesse has to work to suppress his rage. The alcohol’s probably the only thing strong enough. It’s a good thing he hasn’t switched to drugs. Yet.

            Jesse says, “I’m trying to remember—“

            “Why you asked me to stay. When I could be halfway across New Mexico by now.”

            “Thought had crossed my mind.”

            “I’m not one of your flock. And I sure as hell am no one’s sheep. I think for myself, I ask questions. I’m more dangerous than anyone you’ve dealt with in a long time, because I know you, and you know I don’t buy it when you lie. You _hate_ it here. Admit it.”

            “It’s home.”

            “It’s hell in slow motion. Admit you hate it here. Tell the truth.”

            Shaking his head, Jesse says, “I don’t hate it. It’s home. I’m here to do a job. That job’s saving people.” He hooks his thumbs under his belt. Jesus, that stupid belt buckle. Tupelo wants to pull the whole thing off him and whip him like he owns him.

            “You can’t even save yourself. Pretending to be something you’re not. What good’s that do anyone else?” Tupelo hisses, flipping through the pages of the bible. “Just as delusional as your daddy.”

            “Least I know who my daddy was.”

            Not offended, Tupelo says, “I know who my daddy was.”

            “The hell you do.”

            “He’s the man took me hunting, fishing. He’s the one who was in the hospital with my mama when I was born and killed her in the doing. He’s the one who loved me.” Tupelo raises his eyes back to Jesse. “He’ll always be my daddy. Whether or not it’s his blood in my veins. And if you think inferring my mother was a whore is going to change the course of the conversation, it really just proves my point. Because my mama _was_ a whore, and your daddy was delusional.”

            “Don’t say that—“

            “Jesse Custer. Son of John Custer. Are you _kidding_ me? JC begets JC, because the Custers were just born to serve Christ almighty. You used to see that this was a lie. Just because I left you, doesn’t mean you had to buy into all this again—“

            “Don’t flatter yourself,” Jesse says flatly.

            Tupelo arches a brow.

            Resting his arm on the pulpit, Jesse says, “I said I’d help you because it’s the right thing to do. But it’s also my job. My job’s saving people, and that includes you. Whether you like it or not. Whether or not you’re following the gospel or not.”

            Tupelo pleads, “Jesse, do you hear yourself right now?”

            “I hear myself, but you don’t hear me. I’m here because I want to be. There’s no one forcing me. I make my own choices—“

            “You’ll die by forty, you keep drinking the way you—“

            “And what are you doing that’s so much better?” Jesse snaps. “Running through here with men on your trail, looking a damned fool, always in trouble and never thinking of the consequences? How’s your life an example for anyone? You want to cast stones, why don’t you look in a mirror first, _Tupelo_?”

            For a moment, Tupelo does nothing. He knows exactly what Jesse means, saying his name like that.

            Taking a breath, Tupelo drops his legs off the pew. He pushes himself to his feet, and saunters up to Jesse with a dangerous smile tracing his lips.

            Jesse goes very cautious at his approach. He should. Tupelo’s all bowed up.

            Lifting the bible, Tupelo says, “This is your good book?” He waves it a little, pages splaying open. It’s leatherette, black. “You want to know what I see when I look at this book?”

            Wary, Jesse doesn’t say anything.

            Tupelo says, “I see this.” Jesse’s brows lower, confused. “Don’t you see it?” Sighing, Tupelo holds the bible in front of Jesse’s face. “Don’t be an idiot. Look at it.” With a grunt, he shoves it at Jesse. “Take it.”

            The second Jesse does, the book still in front of his face, Tupelo punches him through it as hard as he can. The man in black takes a blow to the eye, tripping over the steps and falling on his ass.

            With a scowl, Tupelo leans down and says, “I see a _book_. That’s all it is.” He lifts a fist. “And this is real life.” He turns and walks down the aisle. “I’ll take my chances with the Eugenes of the world. At least they know they done wrong, and want to be forgiven. Sure as shit better than the rest of you, convinced you’re right.”

            Jesse doesn’t say a word. That’s good. Right now, Tupelo’s so mad he thinks he might bite off the man’s tongue.

 

Tupelo’s just left his uncle’s, on a quest for cleaning supplies, when the squad car lights come on behind him.

            He’s still livid over what Jesse said, and not in the mood for this nonsense. With a scowl, he pulls the car over to the side of the street. He grabs his license and registration and puts both hands out the window before Root can even get out of his car.

            The sheriff comes up the side of the Chevelle, and Tupelo says, “Not that this will make a damn bit of difference if you decide to just shoot an unarmed black man, but you’ll note that my hands are outside the vehicle and I’m not resisting.”

            Face impenetrable, Root takes the license and registration, lifting them to his eyes. The man needs glasses. Great. A cop with poor vision.

            After a moment, Root looks over top of the driver’s license. “ _Tupelo_ O’Hare?”

            He doesn’t say it quite like Jesse did. More incredulous than mocking. “That’s me, officer.”

            Looking between the photo and Tupelo, Root says, “Huh.”

            “So? What is it? Broken tail light, or was I just driving while black?”

            “Still got a big mouth, I see.”

            “Yep. What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

            Tapping the card and paper against his hand, Root says, “Got a report of a man pulling a gun on some high school kids.”

            “Wouldn’t know anything about that.”

            “You wouldn’t.”

            “Even if they did, I’d say it’s a damn shame the problem would be with whoever got them to stop beating on that kid just trying to get to school, instead of the vicious little shits who were tormenting him.”

            Root’s eyes are impossible to see past. Tupelo has no idea if it’s because he’s stoic or there’s just nothing going on in his head. He’s always suspected the latter.

            “How long you in town?” Root asks.

            “Just checking on my uncle. Gonna clean out his house, make sure he doesn’t choke to death on all the dust in there, then get the hell out of here.” Tupelo shakes his head, saying adamantly, “I do _not_ want to be here.”

            “That’s good to hear.” Root holds his things out, and Tupelo takes them between his index and middle finger, still keeping his hands visible at all times. “So I’m not going to have any other reason to see you between now and when you leave, will I?”

            “I sure hope not.”

            “Good,” Root says, then starts walking away.

            It’s the easiest Root’s ever gone on him. And for some reason, Tupelo finds himself opening the big mouth in question. “Sheriff?” he says, sticking his head out the window.

            Root stops, looking at him with blank eyes.

            Shrugging, Tupelo says, “The boy only wants to go to church.”

            The man’s face contorts, for a mere second, but Tupelo realizes he should have kept his mouth shut. Root says, “That’d be none of your business, _Miss_ O’Hare.” He turns his back on Tupelo.

            Same old blade twisting in his stomach, Tupelo falls back against his seat. He looks down at his picture on the driver’s license. The goatee, the androgynous face that leans towards masculine. The gender marker that says M.

            Root’s car blows past him, and all of a sudden, Tupelo’s angry as hell.

 

He’s spending probably $75 of his own dwindling money, but Walter’s place is disgusting. It actually smells like something died. Prairie dog, maybe, under the house. Or a stray cat that got in somehow?

            Whatever it is, Tupelo needs a project, so here he is, back at the grocery store, filling up a basket with cleaning products, gloves, bags. He even gets a little package of those face masks, thinking of all the spores or whatever’s in the air at Walter’s.

            This time, he feels all the eyes in the store on him. He counts ten people. He knows some of them, and the others are at least familiar. Names he’s forgotten, or faces an echo of family members he knew. It’s a small town, and word’s gotten around fast.

            Thank God Annville’s so small, or he’d worry. No one bothers Annville, and Annville sure as hell doesn’t bother the outside world.

            His eyes fall on the pack of letters, the kind you use on signs. Setting his jaw, Tupelo snatches it, and tosses it on top of the basket. That done, he strides over to the till.

            The cashier doesn’t say a word to him, and Tupelo doesn’t say a word to the cashier. He just dumps the contents on the counter, and puts the basket down on the ground, reaching into his pocket for his wallet.

            “Been a mistake. None of this is for sale.”

            Tupelo raises his eyes. “Beg pardon?”

            The cashier’s a round faced man with long hair coming past his shoulders. His eyes are made smaller with hatred. “Nothing here is for sale.”

            After a second, Tupelo puts his hands down on the counter. “Do not be an asshole.”

            “You want to make a scene, ma’am, I’ll ask you to leave. You don’t want to leave, I’ll _make_ you.”

            Tupelo sees red. He lives a life where he does not get misgendered. He looks male, he sounds male, he _is_ male. Being back in Annville—if he doesn’t take off soon, he’s going to shoot somebody.

            _Don’t shoot anyone. You’ll need those bullets if the boys from Austin show up_.

            Tupelo glances down at the man’s name tag. “Joey,” he says, and studies the man’s face. It’s familiar. “I know that I know you.”

            Leaning forward, the man hisses, “Listen, you fucking freak. Get out of here, or I’ll punch you in your fucking—“

            “Joey Klinghoffer!” Tupelo says loudly. “We were in foster care together. When you were _twelve_. I remember something happening.” He puts a warning into his voice. “What was it again?”

            The man’s eyes go quickly from hatred to fear.

            “It was something,” Tupelo says, putting his hands on his hips. “Now—I’m sure that if I leave here without making my purchases, I’m going to think about it, and keep thinking about it, and when I remember, I’m just going to have to tell everyone I see, because I’ll have so much time on my hands, and really, what else will I have to do? But, say, you take my money and stop acting like an ignorant bigot, and maybe I won’t remember—“

            Joey starts grabbing things, ringing him up. Tupelo gives a nod, pulling out some cash. You just have to know where to apply the most pressure.

            “There a membership program?” Tupelo asks, and with a grimace, Joey gives him the 10% discount without any more prompting.

            He grabs the money from Tupelo’s hand, and drops the change from about six inches above, obviously disgusted at the idea of touching him. Tupelo takes it in stride, stuffing the change in his pocket, and taking his bags.

            “Thank you,” Tupelo says, sweet as can be.

            Fucking Annville.

 

He screeches to a stop in front of the sign for All Saints Congregational. Not all the letters match. There’s three red ones in with all the white.

            Tearing open the new package of letters, Tupelo walks over. He takes a few minutes, putting up and taking down letters, his whole body radiating anger. When he’s done, he takes all the extra letters with him for next time.

            Getting back in his car, he tears away from the sign that now reads, ‘THIS WEEK’S SERMON: GOD ADMITS HE’S DEAD! ALL IS LOST!’

            He feels better about life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But watch that one stumbling in the street  
> See him gesture to his neighbours  
> See him trampled beneath their feet  
> 'As I Sat Sadly By Her Side' No More Shall We Part (2001)
> 
> 'Sunday's Slave' is a track from 1988's Tender Prey. 
> 
> Also! I'm having issues with formatting again--the end notes from the first chapter keep duplicating on later chapters days after I post them. Sorry for that; I've got no idea why it keeps doing that.  
> Anyways, have lovely days, each and every one of you.


	7. Let's not weep for their evil deeds

For a second, he leans over the mop, trying to catch his breath.

            He thought it would take a few hours. He started last night, working from the back of the house. Almost immediately, it became clear that initial estimates were generous underestimations.

            Tupelo has no idea how his uncle’s lived in this place as long as he has and not died. The kitchen was infested with roaches. The bathroom ceiling is turning black with mold. He couldn’t even walk in the bedroom.

            After seven hours of work last night, he slept in his car, because he couldn’t stand the thought of sleeping in the house. Walter was passed out on the porch out back, but at this point Tupelo thinks the man must be immortal. The man’s a drunk version of the T2.

            He was up at eight, and he’s been working for another eight hours. He had to run out for a few minutes to get more garbage bags, because he went through an entire box. At first, Tupelo thought he’d just get rid of the empty beer cans, do some dishes.

            Nope. He needed to throw out most of what he came across. All the dishes had to go. He’ll buy Walter some paper and plastic ones. As if the man eats anything but a liquid dinner anyways. Tupelo’s willing to bet the dishes had been in the sink at least a year, since the last good samaritan tried to give Walter a hand.

            Fifteen hours into his project and he’s coming to an end. He’s cleared all the floors, and last night he sprayed the kitchen with two entire cans of roach spray, then sealed the whole house off. This morning there were dead bugs everywhere. He’s thrown away everything that was broken or too disgusting for existence, done three loads of laundry, wiped down all the surfaces with a soapy cloth, scraped away as much mold as possible, swept, and vacuumed.

            Now he’s mopping the kitchen, trying to think of what else he can do.

            He’s wearing nothing but his jeans and some old sneakers, and a scarf around his hair. He’s been working too hard for anything else, and the day is that dangerous kind of muggy that promises a norther, or even a twister. Tupelo has been waiting almost desperately for the weather to break, and the skies to open. The bathroom might finally be clean enough to use, but after smashing that one particularly tenacious roach, he’d really rather just stand in the rain and let nature wash all the sweat and grime away.

            Tupelo wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm, and walks over to the kitchen window. The sky’s clouded over. Coming in dark from the east again. Christ, he wishes a tornado would just come down and wipe this place clear, like Ratwater before it.

            He props himself up against mop, putting his other hand on the back of his hip. His whole body aches. Tupelo’s not afraid of hard work, but this project has been a horse of another colour.

            _Not much more. Come on, now_.

            With a deep breath, Tupelo takes the mop in both hands, and continues to scrub away at the floor. All his life, lots of people thought he was lazy. Nope—usually he was just bored. He did terribly in school, because he hated his teachers and what they were teaching him didn’t seem to matter. On his own time, though, he was reading Christopher Marlowe and constructing trebuchets of his own design. He likes projects. That’s why he’s always been so good at jobs. When he has to, his focus is total.

            But this might be the last time he ever cleans anyone’s house. A man’s got to have limits.

            He hears boots on the front steps. He’s left all the doors and windows open, trying to get the chemical scent out and some fresh air in. Tupelo keeps mopping, an ear open.

            “Jesus,” he hears Jesse say.

            “It’s about the only miracle you’ll ever see,” Tupelo retorts, “and it sure as hell wasn’t by the hand of God.”

            He continues mopping, Jesse on the other side of the wall in the living room. There’s a silence as Jesse takes in the state of the house. “You know Walter’s passed out on the front walk, right?”

            “Yep,” Tupelo says, sliding the mop over the linoleum. “I think he doesn’t understand how to sleep on clean sheets.”

            Jesse comes to the doorway, saying, “Shouldn’t—“ Then he abruptly clears his throat.

            Tupelo straightens, holding onto the mop handle. Jesse’s looking down. He’s a man who’s seen more than most, but Tupelo swears he might actually be blushing.

            Tupelo is confused a moment, but then he rolls his eyes. “Oh, Jesus, Jesse. You’ve seen me naked more than you’ve seen yourself naked. This isn’t near as bad. Stop doing your schoolboy impersonation and look me in the eye.”

            Coughing again, Jesse very pointedly looks at Tupelo’s face, and not any lower. He swallows, seemingly having forgotten what he was going to say. Tupelo’s just glad he only looked at the front, and hasn’t seen the tattoo on his back.

            “So? You just dropping by to cast judgment some more?”

            “Between the two of us, I’d say you were the one making more accusations.”

            “That’s true. Only problem is, everything I said was right, and you’re the one who thinks judging others is a sacred calling.” Tupelo bends his head, biting his thumb nail. “So? What do you want?”

            “Checking to see if—you’d heard anything about the boys from Austin.”

            Standing straight, Tupelo says quickly, “Why? Are they here?”

            “No. No, not that I’ve heard of. Everybody’s actually….”

            Jesse shrugs, and Tupelo finishes, “Talking about me.” Jesse nods, and Tupelo snorts. “Could have seen that coming a mile away. Well, I’ll be gone soon as I’m done with this. I’m actually a little worried. A change so extreme to Walter’s environment might actually be the thing to kill him.”

            “You don’t have to go.”

            “Hell yes I do.” Tupelo dunks the mop into the bucket, and sticks his hands into his back pockets. “Everyone in town knows who and where I am, and in the past day I’ve been called more names than in the past year. I’m tough enough to stand up to some name calling, but eventually I’ll lose my temper and someone will lose a testicle. Best I move on.”

            “Doesn’t sound like you.”

            “What doesn’t sound like me?”

            “Backing down from a fight.”

            Tupelo stares at him a moment. Tilting his head forward, he says, “I beg your pardon? Weren’t you saying something yesterday to the effect that I always run when the going gets tough?”

            “In a moment of anger, I may have said something to that effect. You must admit, though, the majority of that conversation was you mocking me for the choices I’ve made with my life and calling everything I do a lie.”

            “Don’t use logic on me. I won’t have it.”

            “My mistake.”

            Tupelo can’t figure him out. He really doesn’t understand why Jesse wants him to stay. They can’t have what they once did. Tupelo’s not the person Jesse thought he was. Both of them know he should leave this place. Otherwise, if the boys from Austin don’t get him, someone from town will string him up. Maybe from the tree out by the church.

            Raising his bare shoulders, Tupelo says, “Why do you want me here?”

            “Because I want to make sure you’re okay.”

            “That’s not enough of an answer.”

            “It’s the only answer I have to give you.”

            “But it doesn’t make sense.”

            Shaking his head, Jesse says, “You asked for an answer. You didn’t ask that it make sense.”

            The worst of it is, Tupelo wants to stay. He hates Annville. There’s almost nothing he hates more than Annville. Being misgendered, maybe. Being shot, that’s on the list too. But that’s about it. Only Jesse’s here. And Tupelo’s drawn to him like someone’s put an elastic band around them both and he’s been pulling away too long.

            Staying, though—for a day longer, two days, an hour—it’s fooling himself. Things can’t go back to the way they were. They are who they are. And some things can’t change, not for all the wishing in the world.

            “Came to ask you—you remember what tomorrow is?”

            Tupelo thinks. “June—5th?”

            “6th, but besides that.”

            “D-Day?”

            Jesse chuckles, and says, “Besides that, though as an American, I appreciate the patriotism.”

            Tupelo crawls back through his memory, then groans. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

            “Robert Collum’s birthday,” Jesse says with relish at his disgust. “Barbecue out at the church, same as always. Drinking on a weekday. You know—like every other day in Annville.”

            “Robert Collum,” Tupelo says, “was a Klan member who fell down a hole and drowned.”

            “He was an Annville citizen who served with distinction in the Great War,” Jesse counters with very little heat. “One of Annville’s _heroes_. I can’t believe you’d dare disparage his name.”

            “Disparage? I’d lift a leg and piss on it, and I will, you think I’m going out to the church to celebrate anything to do with that racist bastard.”

            Crossing his arms, Jesse leans against the doorway. “Talked to the Sheriff. Asked specifically for Eugene to be there. Next Sunday too.”

            “What? You want a cookie for not being an asshole?”

            “There is no pleasing you.”

            “I am easily pleased. You just wouldn’t have the balls.” Tupelo shrugs. “No. I’m not making myself a target any more than I already have. And the whole reason I came through here was to make sure you were okay. Me showing up around you—and admittedly, after I pointed your gun at some kids while driving your truck—isn’t going to endear you anymore to the locals. It’d be ridiculous if the boys from Austin never showed up, but you got yourself shot for not physically throwing me off church property.”

            Jesse chews on the side of his mouth. “Fine. If you won’t come tomorrow, what about going out drinking tonight?”

            Tupelo actually throws back his head and laughs.

            “You’re _suicidal_ ,” he says, amazed. “That’s what this is. You want to die, and you’re making me your accomplice.”

            “Come on. A couple drinks at Frontier. I’m going with or without you.” Jesse looks at him from under his brows. “You want to hear, old time’s sake? One more before you hit the road?”

            “I want to hear what the hell you think you’re doing.”

            Jesse mulls it over a moment. Then he says, “I don’t want you to think I’m a coward.”

            God damn him. Damn him, and those puppy dog eyes, and that scruff on his face, and every single thing about him.

            Tupelo breathes deeply through his nose. “I’ll go out with you tonight, have some drinks, if you do one thing.”

            “I’m gonna hate it, ain’t I?” Tupelo arches a brow, and Jesse shrugs. “Fine. What?”

            “Look at my tattoo,” Tupelo commands.

            Jesse stills.

            It takes him a few seconds, but then his eyes lower to Tupelo’s chest.

            He had surgery four years ago, and the tattoo is a little over two years’ old, a part of him as anything else. It’s a photo realistic depiction of a violent lightning storm, starting right below his collar bone and finishing below his navel. The roiling clouds disguise his scars, and it’s as gorgeous a piece as he’s ever seen. Some days, it’s his favourite thing about his body.

            Jesse’s eyes linger, then drop. With a grin, Tupelo says, “Jesse Custer, you are _blushing_.”

            “Looks good,” Jesse says gruffly. “What’d that run you?”

            “The surgery or the tattoo?”

            “Lord—“

            “What time you want me to meet you at Frontier?” Tupelo says, and crosses his arms with a smirk.

 

He walks to the bar after hiding the car behind an old shack where the kids used to go and make out until someone killed a homeless guy there. He and Jesse still went there after the man was killed, but they were the only ones, and judging by the state of the thing, no one’s been in there since.

            Tupelo keeps to himself, hands in the pockets of his tight red jeans. He’s wearing his china pattern Docs, and a little purple button down. Hair glossy, curls soft. Cheeks starting to fuzz with a little stubble. If Jesse wants to go drinking with him at Frontier, Tupelo’s sure as hell not going to pretend to be anything he’s not, even if it is the most redneck bar in the whole town. Walking target or not, he won’t hide.

            Besides, he looks _damned_ good.

            He walks along the back streets, away from people, until reaching Main Street. Well, Main Street, such as it is. There’s the bar, the grocery store that he keeps going back to just because at this point it pisses people off, the barber, the mayor’s office. Way down at the end is the sheriff’s department. A few restaurants, one that claims to be ‘Authentic Tex Mex!’ but Tupelo knows they’ve only ever had white waitresses.

            Frontier’s a little box of a place, with as many motorcycles parked outside as there are pickups. Very much aware that he could be facing a broken jaw later in the evening, Tupelo squares his shoulders, then walks through the doors, the name of the bar painted across them.

            About two seconds later, the place goes dead.

            A dozen pairs of eyes are gazing at him. Every single person in the bar is looking at him, and the expressions range from impassive to disdain. He’s the only one of colour, the only one who cares about how he looks, and he’s sure as hell the only obvious queer.

            Letting the door shut behind him, Tupelo says levelly, “Y’all rednecks go back to what you were doing. Could have sworn I just heard a record scratch.”

            With an eye roll, he walks over to the bar. Jesse’s not here yet, the son of a bitch. He said nine, and it’s nine. After five years, Jesse’s chronic lateness had faded in Tupelo’s memory. Now it’s back with a vengeance.

            Climbing onto a stool, Tupelo fixes the bartender with a hard gaze. He’s about 6’3”, sunburned, with a shaved head and long beard.

            “Swear to God, Wilson,” he says, “I beat the shit out of you when we were eight, and I’ll do it again if you try anything on me now.”

            The man walks over, and holds out a hand. “O’Hare,” he says, voice about an octave deeper than the last time they saw each other.

            Tupelo smiles crookedly, something inside settling with relief. His smaller hand disappears inside the man’s massive one. “How you doing, Buddy?” he asks. Buddy is the first person in this town to recognize him and not have his head explode with confusion or malice.

            “Been doing all right. Running my daddy’s place, since he had the stroke.”

            “I’m real sorry to hear that.”

            “He’s doing a lot better.” Buddy leans back against the wall, crossing thick, tattooed arms. Some of that is definitely prison ink. He’s wearing a denim vest over a Merle Haggard t-shirt that looks about twenty years old.  

            “That’s a nice shirt,” Tupelo says honestly.

            Glancing down, Buddy shrugs. “I like it. So? What the hell have you been up to?”

            “About what you’d figure. Causing trouble. Breaking rules.”

            “Oh yeah,” Buddy says, “this is definitely what I figured would happen to you.”

            Tupelo grins. After three days in Annville, it’s nice to find someone this unfazed by him.

            Scratching the side of his head, where his hairs are shorn to the scalp, Tupelo asks, “Please tell me you’ve got a bottle of something better than Ratwater.”

            “You want to hear that I microbrew it too?” Tupelo raises his eyes to the ceiling, and Buddy goes to get the whiskey. “City life has changed you, O’Hare.”

            “Smart ass.” Buddy puts a shot glass in front of him, and Tupelo says, “I’ll need two.”

            Buddy pauses. “Yeah?”

            Shrugging, Tupelo rests his arms on the bar. “Seems he has a death wish.” Buddy sets another empty glass on the counter. Tupelo opens the bottle, and pours himself a drink. Screwing the lid back on, he says, “Ask you something?”

            “If you want.”

            Lowering his voice, Tupelo says, “How many nights a week is he in here?”

            Glancing around the bar, not caring about the people sneaking constant peeks at them, Buddy answers, “At least twice a week. Getting to be more like three.”

            “How bad?”

            “Had to take his keys twice last month. I don’t usually worry too much about him, though. He knows his limits. Usually he sleeps it off in the truck out back.” Buddy nods his head side to side. “Had a little trouble with one of the boys this weekend.”

            “I seen his lip. Who did that to him?”

            Buddy’s about to answer, but the door opens, and he nods over Tupelo’s head. “Evening, Preacher.”

            “Evening, Buddy,” says Jesse. He climbs onto the stool next to Tupelo. “Started without me?”

            “Thought about it. You’re late.”

            “I’m not late. I said nine.”

            “Yeah? What time does it say on that watch of yours?”

            “9:05.”

            “There you go.”

            “That’s not late.”

            Picking up the bottle, Tupelo pours him a shot. “That’s late.”

            “Buddy, is that late?”

            Putting up his hands, Buddy says, “I got more sense than to get in between the two of you.” He moves away down the bar, going off to gather up glasses.

            Tupelo glances at Jesse. “You even wear the collar when you go drinking?”

            “I am a preacher 24/7.”

            “You’re a fool 24/7,” Tupelo mutters. “Cheers.” He downs his shot, squeezing his eyes shut.

            Jesse takes it like water. “So what were you and Buddy talking about?”

            “I was interrogating him about your drinking habits.”

            “Yeah? And what did he say?”

            “That you’re a real problem case. You’re on the edge, gonna be in rehab any day now.”

            “Did he.”

            “Yep.”

            They look at each other a moment, and it’s so _easy_. Being with him, like this, is as easy as thought. Tupelo has to break eye contact, listening to Jesse cough softly.

            “Anyone say anything to you?” Jesse asks quietly.

            “Why would they?” Tupelo challenges.

            Raising a dark brow, Jesse replies, “Because you look like Prince.”

            Tupelo laughs, loud and clear. He’s tickled by that. He’ll take the comparison any day. “Why, thank you.” Pouring them each another drink, he says, “If I thought you were the kind of man susceptible to flattery, I’d tell you that outfit looks better on you than it ever did on Johnny Cash.”

            “Blasphemer,” Jesse says, teasingly wide eyed.

            Not bothering to look over, Tupelo remarks, “I hope you came ready to fight, because I think these fools are losing their minds right now, Jesse.”

            Jesse just shrugs. “I honestly do not care. I know which ones are cheating on their wives. I know which one poisoned her mother’s food while she was dying. I know which one thinks about little girls. I dare anyone of them to get on my case for having a drink with an old friend.”

            That word doesn’t even begin to encompass it. Tupelo raises his glass. “Old friends.”

 

Tupelo waits while Jesse gets over his fit of coughing, a fist to his mouth. He’s turned slightly in his seat, towards him. It’s not intentional. It’s just what his body does when Jesse’s near.

            Catching his breath, Jesse finally says, “With a _bazooka_?”

            “Oh, don’t act so shocked. Who taught me how to make one?”

            “But—a helicopter.” Jesse turns, bumping his knee, and they both pause. They glance down, and Tupelo pulls one leg up onto his lap, to keep it from happening again. Sure, he’d like to press his leg against Jesse’s under the bar. He’d love to get him drunk enough to look past something as trivial as sexual orientation. And he would really, really enjoy ripping the collar off him, then the rest of the shirt too, seeing if his tongue needs to learn any new scars.

            However. Real life.

            “Helicopter,” Tupelo confirms. He’s got a nice little buzz going. Sticking to shots is a much better idea than drinking straight from the bottle.

            “How many?”

            “Two. Pilot, whoever the hell the guy was with him.”

            Jesse ruffles a hand through his black hair, hesitating, then asks, “How many?”

            “Didn’t you ask me that the other night?”

            “ _No_. You know what I mean.”

            He doesn’t see any judgment in Jesse’s eyes. Just curiosity. So Tupelo tells the truth. “Six.”

            There’s a little narrowing of the eyes, but that’s the only facial reaction he gives. Jesse picks up his glass, sipping from the glass this time until it’s all gone.

            Tupelo can’t take it. “Gonna ask me to repent?”

            “I suspect that would be an exercise in futility.”

            “A little late in the game, but you’ve finally shown some sense.”

            “Do you—“ Jesse pauses, searching for the right words.

            Tupelo already knows what the question is. He gives his head a single shake. “No,” he says firmly. “Never killed anyone didn’t try to kill me first. So my conscience is clear.”

            “You sure?”

            He raises his brows, then tells Jesse honestly, “Yeah.” That makes Jesse frown. He puts his arms on the bar, scratching at the wood. Tupelo tries to figure him out, then sighs. “I don’t have that thing you have. That need to hate myself for the things I’ve done. I know who I am. I’m a bad man.”

            “No you ain’t.”

            “I ain’t bad or I ain’t a man? Cause I sure as hell ain’t good, and I’ll knock out your teeth, you try to tell me I’m not a man.” Tupelo rolls his shoulders. “Already dealt with enough of that bullshit in the last few days.”

            Jesse says quietly, “Just because a person isn’t good, doesn’t mean they’re bad.”

            Tupelo gives him a look. “Please. Jesse. Moral relativity doesn’t suit you. I know you need to see everything in black and white. For pete’s sake, look at that outfit.”

            With a soft snort, Jesse responds, “If I only saw in black and white, I’d go insane.”

            “You’re in Annville, Jesse. That ship’s sailed.”

            Jesse refills their glasses. The bottle’s about three quarters empty. “Another question, if I may be so bold.”

            “God save me from handsome Texan men with manners. Go on, be bold.”

            He can’t help himself. It’s Jesse. It’d be easier trying to pull the moon from the sky than not flirt with this man.

            Pushing Tupelo’s glass over, Jesse asks, “What do you like about being a man?”

            The question surprises Tupelo. He puts his hand over the glass, giving the question a thought. “How do you mean?”

            “Your favourite thing about it. If you had to pick.”

            He turns the question over in his mind, then answers, “Freedom from other men.”

Jesse tilts his head, wanting an explanation. Tupelo raises his thin shoulders, looking past Jesse occasionally to the rest of the bar. People are still glancing over, but they’ve keeping to themselves. The smart ones remember what a dangerous combination the two of them were.

            “When you walk around—as a woman—it’s a far more constricting place. Expectations—on how you look, how you act, how you speak. Money’s less, payout’s worse, danger’s greater. When people think you’re a woman, they treat you like you’re lesser. Like they own you by divine right. You don’t behave, and everyone comes down on you so hard. I’m tough, but after a lifetime, everyone trying to wear me down—I was awful tired. But as soon as other men saw me as one of them—“ Tupelo spreads his hands. “It was like a cage being opened. There was this—sense of relief, like a wave. Being myself, that was the best part of coming out. But of being a man? Having everyone just step back, and let me _be_. It’s so fucking unfair. Half the world, supposed to carry that weight. Meanwhile, I get to be free. I think I feel more guilt over that than any of the men I ever killed. That the hair on my face means I can walk the streets at night without worrying about getting raped, and the next person who comes along, just because she’s a woman, she’s gotta look at every man like a threat. I don’t feel too good about that.” Tupelo takes a deep breath, then smiles crookedly. “But I am a black man, and I could just be randomly shot at any moment, so I don’t exactly _weep_ about my privilege, if you know what I mean.”

            Jesse cracks up, because preacher or not, he’s just as ghoulish as he is. “Damn. That’s terrible.”

            “And you?” Tupelo asks in curiosity. “What’s your favourite thing about being a man?”

            Eyes widening, Jesse takes a second before saying, “Shoot—I never thought about it.”

            “Of course you never thought about it. Cis man.”

            “Cis—is not transgender, right?”

            Tupelo’s mouth spreads into a smile. “Someone turned on his computer, didn’t he.”

            “Someone’s not a dumb country bumpkin, if you don’t remember.”

            “You haven’t made a compelling argument for the opposition thus far, Custer.”

            Jesse grins, baring his teeth. The more Tupelo looks at him, he realizes that it’s probably been a long time since Jesse smiled this much. _He’s lonely_ , Tupelo thinks. That’s why he’s wanted Tupelo to stay. Even when it would be smarter to move on.

            _This will all end in tears. Or bloodshed._

“Favourite part of being a man,” Jesse contemplates.

            “Don’t say your dick,” Tupelo demands, and Jesse cringes. “Jesus, that’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it. Dig deep, bumpkin.”

            Jesse nods a few times, then says, “Expectation of care.”

            Tupelo can feel the wrinkles on his forehead. “Beg pardon?”

            Taking a deep breath, Jesse says, “You’re gonna think I’m a jackass, and old fashioned, and that’s fine. I’m both. I get it. But I like—that as a man, I’m expected to have—certain responsibilities. That I can provide, that I can take care of my loved ones. That I can keep people safe. I like the expectation of responsibility.”

            “And you _don’t_ think women have that?”

            “Oh, I know they do. I just…think in a little bit of a different way?”

            He looks so remorseful that Tupelo takes pity on him. He claps Jesse on the arm, saying, “Yeah, you’re a sexist, Custer, but at least you feel bad about it. That’s better than most.” Tupelo tilts his whiskey back into his mouth as Jesse tries to protest, but Tupelo doesn’t listen, refilling his glass. “No wonder you want to be preacher. You get to act like the whole town’s your responsibility.”

            “They _are_.”

            “They don’t want to be,” Tupelo says bluntly.

            For a second, he thinks Jesse might be pissed, but the man just says, “Doesn’t matter. I’ll be here when they decide they want it.”

            “And when that turns out to be never?”

            Straight faced, Jesse replies, “Then I’ll feel real justified when St. Peter says, ‘Come on in,’ and the rest of them spend eternity in a lake of fire.”

            “You sick fuck,” Tupelo laughs.

            Resting his head on his hand, Jesse says, “I’m a terrible preacher.”

            “You are. You legitimately, truly are. Landry?”

            Sitting up straight, Jesse points at him. “Don’t you dare. Landry practically walked on water himself. Completed feats not seen of mortal men.” Leaning forward, he hisses, “America’s Team.”

            Tupelo starts to giggle. He has to turn to the counter and put his hands to his face.

            When he pulls himself together, diaphragm still hitching a little, he finds Jesse giving him a quixotic smile. “What?”

            With a shrug, Jesse says, “Been a long time since I heard you laugh like that.”

            “Only person I laugh like that for is you, Preacher.”

            Jesse purses his lips, and says, “Hey, can—“

            “ _Yes_ ,” Tupelo says with a dramatic roll of the eyes. “You can ask. You don’t have to ask every time if you want to ask me something, just ask the damn question.”

            Licking his lips, Jesse drops his voice a bit. “When—we were together. I didn’t—make it feel like I owned you—did I?”

            Tupelo would run into a burning building for this man. He’d cross the seas, would find the golden fleece, whatever deed was ordered of him. This man’s the love of his life.

            “You did own me,” Tupelo says. “It just had nothing to do with divine right.”

            The way they look at each other, Tupelo can feel a flicker of the old current. He wants so badly—

            God, he _wants_.

            But the front doors push open, and they break away from each other, both reaching for their glasses and downing them at the same time.

            “Well!” a voice says loudly, and Tupelo looks up, though Jesse doesn’t. The man who just walked through the door with two much larger friends appears familiar, but Tupelo can’t place him. He’s got a big grin on his face, only his eyes pretty much telegraph ‘unhinged.’ _Here comes that broken jaw I was expecting._ The man walks towards them, looking half out of his mind. “I heard it, but I had to see it with my own eyes.”

            “Evening, Donnie,” Jesse says without looking up from the bar.

            Oh shit. It’s Donnie Schenck. He grew up to be—well, at least tall.

            Standing with a wide stance, Donnie claps Jesse on the back, and Jesse goes rigid. “What, Preacher? Didn’t get enough on Saturday?”

            Jaw dropping, Tupelo says, “Jesus. You let _him_ hit you and didn’t hit him back?” Jesse sends him a wry look that says, _thanks for absolutely nothing_.

            Donnie fixes those crazy eyes on Tupelo, who stares back, unbothered. “Now, all those years, I was wondering if either he was a faggot or you were a dyke.” He looks around, as if checking to see if everyone’s in on the joke. Raising his shoulders, Donnie finishes, “I still don’t know!”

            His buddies laugh, but Tupelo leans back against the bar, uncrossing his legs. “So,” he says, voice raised enough for the rest of the bar to hear, “you’re the piece of shit who likes to beat his wife.”

            The light in Donnie’s eyes flares for a second. Jesse briefly closes his eyes, wincing.

            Tupelo doesn’t let it stop him. “That on account of how badly we beat the tar out of you when we were kids? Is that the only way you can get hard? Doing to your wife what we used to do to you?”

            Donnie’s mouth spreads into a sneer. “I’d shut up your girlfriend, Preacher, before I smack her in the face.”

            Tupelo nods past him to his friends. “I’d ask your girlfriends if they want to run now before they suffer the ignominy of being beat half to death by a man who’s 5’6” and 130 pounds. Oh, wait—do any of you inbred hicks even know what ignominy means?”

            Stepping closer, Donnie says, “You sure—“

            Jesse sits up, lifting his hands between the two of them. “Listen. We are just here to have a drink. There’s no reason for this to get ugly.”

            Tupelo wants to smack the smug off Donnie’s face when he grabs Jesse’s shoulder, leaning down close to him. “You know, that’s what I expected to hear from you. Big, legendary tough guy. Almost had me worried on Saturday, with your little speech about me making—what was it? A noise like a bunny in a bear trap? But you just gave up, didn’t you, pussy?”

            For a moment, Tupelo can only stare at Jesse in shock. He’s heard Jesse give that speech. He’s seen what comes at the end. But Jesse—Jesse just rolled over?

            Maybe he thinks Jesse’s having a bit of a pity party, hiding here in Annville, and maybe he thinks he’s a bit of a fool, with all this church nonsense. But not for a moment did he ever think Jesse was a coward.

            Donnie reaches behind Jesse, picking up the bottle and filling the glass to the rim. Jesse can’t even raise his head from the counter. He’s so ashamed that he can’t look at Tupelo. Tupelo doesn’t blame him. He wouldn’t know what to say.

            Collecting himself, Tupelo says, “You want to fight? Fine, let’s—“

            But then he bites his words. Jesse looks so miserable. If Tupelo takes on Donnie when Jesse wouldn’t, it’s basically cutting off his balls.

            And ever since Tupelo came back to town, he’s been like a tornado. Creating havoc wherever he goes. Maybe it’s time to just back off. Act like a grown up, and follow Jesse’s lead.

            Tupelo takes a deep breath through his nose, and gives his head a shake. “You’re right, Jesse. Fuck it. I’m too old for this schoolyard bullshit anyway.”       

            Donnie says, “So you ain’t gonna do anything?”

            “Why bother? I already took one of your nipples, man. I don’t need to take the other.”

            “So if I poured this drink over his head, you’d just sit there and do nothing? Huh? Bearded freaky little dyke?”

            He really is out of his mind. Tupelo discovers that he kind of feels sorry for him. The name calling simply rolls off him, and he relaxes.

            Then Donnie throws the drink in _his_ face.

            Tupelo has just enough time to take a breath. The liquor drips off him, down onto his purple shirt.

            Next thing he knows, Jesse’s grabbed the bottle of whiskey and smashed it against Donnie’s head. And Tupelo sits back and drinks it all in.

            Jesse has Donnie’s wrist in his grip, and he uses his other fist to punch him across the face three times. Spinning, he slams Donnie’s head against the counter. Donnie falls at Tupelo’s feet, and Tupelo casually lifts his legs out of the way.

            The smaller of Donnie’s friends comes at Jesse, and Jesse doesn’t waste any time, fist smashing into the guy’s throat. He swings with his left fist, just as able with left as right, and a tooth goes flying out in a spray of red. As the man coughs out blood, a look of pure content crosses Jesse’s face.

            He’s gone in seconds from the laconic, cigarette smoking preacher to a whirling dervish. He’s all dirty moves and solid fists, kicks to the rear end and elbows across the face,  not stopping to think. He’s a walking streak of darkness, more comfortable with blood than he’ll ever be with the good book.

            The third of Donnie’s friends is on him, and some of the guys who were elsewhere in the bar are getting up to come help. Jesse just turns and punches the man in the balls before grabbing his stool and cracking it over the head of the first of the newcomers.

            He finally takes a hit, but he actually seems glad for it. He takes the next blow to the stomach just as easy, falling back against the counter, before coming back with a strike to the throat that sends the big man back, gagging, then sending his head back with a devastating uppercut. The next guy who comes at him, Jesse just snatches by the collar and elbows across the face, then grabs him by his belt and sends him flying across a table.

            Tupelo looks down in vague interest as Donnie struggles to his knees, crawling towards the door.

            No one else is dumb enough to take Jesse on. He strides over, face impassive. For a moment, he glances up at Tupelo. All Tupelo can do is fucking _burn_ for him.

            Jesse grabs Donnie by the back of the collar. The man’s shaking, blood spilling out of his mouth onto the floor. Bending down, Jesse nearly coos, “Did I forget to mention—that bunny in a bear trap noise—reason it’s so scary, is because you’ll be the one that’s making it.”

He yanks Donnie around, so that the man’s facing Tupelo’s direction. So Tupelo can see exactly what Jesse is about to do. Tupelo leans forward, setting his tongue to his upper teeth, tasting the whiskey running down his face.

            Looking at Tupelo, Jesse whispers, “You ready for that noise, now?”

            “Preacher!”

            They both look up. They’ve both been so involved that they didn’t see Sheriff Root come through the door. Buddy must have called him when Donnie showed up.

            Frowning, Root says, “Enough. And your little weirdo friend too.”

            Lifting a hand, Tupelo protests, “What did I do?”

            Respectful, Jesse says, “Almost done, Sheriff.”

            Then he grabs Donnie by the elbow and wrist and snaps his forearm, six inches of sharp bone piercing the skin.

            Donnie lets out a high pitched wail, eyes wide with terror. Even the sheriff has fallen back a step with fear, everyone in the bar taken aback.

            Jesse just looks at Tupelo, and Tupelo smiles.

 

When he can’t take the silence anymore, Tupelo looks over and teases, “What kind of preacher are you?”

            Jesse hasn’t said so much as a word since the bar. They’re both in the cell. Town’s so small there’s only the one, even with all the ruckus the Quincannon boys have always caused. Tupelo’s sitting under the window, stretched back, and Jesse’s sitting in the darkness, looking remorseful.

            “A lousy one,” Jesse admits.

            _He just took out five guys for me. All because some lunatic threw a drink in my face_. It’s the most loved that Tupelo has felt in years. Maybe because of that, he can afford to be charitable. “Don’t take it too hard, Preacher. Pray on it. Ask for forgiveness. I’m sure you’ll get an answer.”

            “Do not be facetious with me right now.”

            Tupelo looks over, his arms wrapped around himself. “Not being facetious. I’m just trying to speak to you in your own language.”

            Not buying it, Jesse says, “Didn’t you spend most of our conversation yesterday going up one side of me and down the other for—being a lackey for Christ or something?”

            “I said your religion’s a fraud and called you Sunday’s slave. I _wish_ I’d said lackey for Christ. I should have that on a button or something.” Tupelo glances up at the window. It’s raining again. Not as hard as the night he arrived, but enough that it looks like water simply being poured over the window pane.

            “Try not to look so pleased.”

            “No.”

            “Sorry?”

            “You asked me to do something. I decline.”

            “I just—damaged two years of hard—unbelievably hard work. All because I lost my damn temper.” Jesse drops his head between his knees, sighing in defeat. “What a clusterfuck.”

            “You were _amazing_ ,” Tupelo says in utter admiration.

            He rests his head against the concrete. It’s cold, and he’s a bit chilly, but he’s not complaining. If he would complain about anything, it would be Donnie Schenck’s blood on his pretty blue Docs. But blood will wash, and right now he’s wearing this blood like a badge of honour.

            Tupelo says, “Sometimes I wonder if I just make it up in my head. How good you were at things. How well you did everything. Any time I get in a fight, I think to myself after what you would have done, what I could have done better, and I try to tell myself that I’m romanticizing you in my mind. That you weren’t that tough. You weren’t that wild. But you are. You’re better than my memories, and that is saying something.”

            “Those men—“

            Tupelo turns, spreading his legs and leaning between them. “Would kill someone like me and brag. Think they’d done a good turn for the Lord. We both know that. You asked me to stay here, so you could help keep me safe. You did what you told me you were going to do.”

            Jesse gazes over at him, brow knotted. “You know that’s not all it is.”

            “What else is there?” Tupelo asks, not even bothering to hope for a declaration of love. He’s not that naïve.

            Slowly, Jesse admits, “I _liked_ hurting them.”

            Tupelo rubs his hands over his knees. “Yeah. I know.”

            “That ain’t right. I’ve spent all this time—I _promised_. I promised—“

            “Do you think Donnie and the rest of them were the good guys, Jesse?” Tupelo asks, incredulous. “Do you think you broke your promise? Look me in the eyes, and tell me you think Donnie Schenck was in the right to come into that bar and threaten me, for being something I can’t help. Tell me he’s the good guy.”

            Rubbing his palms together, Jesse pushes out his lower lip. “The hell he is.”

            “Exactly.”

            “But I can’t—I can’t be an example to these people, if I’m—“

            He seems stuck for words, so Tupelo says, “Yourself?”

            Jesse drops his head completely, groaning.

            Wrong thing to say. Honest, probably, but the wrong thing.

            Tupelo pulls a knee up to his chest, then says, “Never mind. You know what? It’s just me being around. I’m a bad influence. I come in like a hurricane. Can’t help myself. Make a mess, take off. You’re the one who’s got to clean it up when I’m gone. I’m sorry about that.”

            Turning his head, Jesse says, “I do not believe a single word that just came out of your mouth.”

            “I’m trying to be nice.”

            “You don’t need to lie to me.” Jesse pushes himself back, pounding his head a few times against the concrete. Staring at the ceiling, he says tiredly, “I should have never come back here.”

            _So leave with me_ , Tupelo wants to say. _Leave this place, and we’ll run as far and fast as we can. That’s how it’s supposed to be_.

            He’s not a kid anymore. He keeps his mouth shut.

            “You’re right. I said I’d protect you. Couldn’t stop myself.” Jesse frowns. “Couldn’t stand the look on your face, when you found out what a yellow belly I’d been.”

            “Jesse, no. I don’t think that.”

            “Sure you don’t.”

            It’s a bad idea. He shouldn’t show him.

            “I’m gonna show you something,” Tupelo says, getting up.

            He peeks out through the bars. The deputy’s in the other room. No idea where Root is. Tupelo reaches for the top of his shirt, and starts unbuttoning it.

            Perplexed and wary, Jesse leans back, watching him. Tupelo quickly undoes his whiskey scented shirt, shedding it. The light’s not too good in here. He isn’t sure how well Jesse will be able to see it. Enough, he’s sure.

            He turns around, and shows Jesse his back.

            After a few seconds, Jesse yelps, “Jesus _Christ_ —“

            The deputy calls, “Everything okay in there?”

            “Fine, officer,” Tupelo says, quickly pulling his shirt back on. He sits back down, rebuttoning his shirt with nervous fingers.

            He can feel Jesse’s wide eyes on him, and doesn’t look up. “What did you do?” Jesse says hoarsely. “What the hell did you do?”

            “I needed a piece of you with me. I know you hate it. I know you hate that mark with all you’ve got. So even if you weren’t with me, I wanted to carry it with you.” Tupelo shakes his head, blushing. “I love you until the end of the world, even if you can’t love me back. I love you so hard I’ll carry that racist bitch’s mark on my skin until I die, just because it makes me think of you. I’d never be ashamed of you. Not ever.”

            He has to bury his face against his knees and cover his head with his arms. It’s too much of an admission. He feels too exposed. There’s no way to tell Jesse how he feels any better than to show him the tattoo on his back, the skull star sitting in the horseshoe.

            When Jesse speaks again, his voice is hushed. “That was a damned stupid thing to do.”       

            Tupelo nods.

            “When?”

            Turning his head away, so he’s facing the wall, Tupelo murmurs, “Last year.”

            “Fuck. Tupelo.”

            “It don’t matter, Jesse. It don’t matter a damned thing. I know what I can and can’t have. I have real clear eyes on the subject. And I’ll be gone soon. Tomorrow, if I can get out of here.” Tupelo lets out an anguished sigh. “God, why did I come back here?”

            “You can’t leave tomorrow,” Jesse says.

            “Why not?” Tupelo replies, rubbing a hand over his curls.

            “Because it’s Robert Collum’s birthday.”

            Tupelo grins, shaking his head. “Fuck yourself.”

            “Tupelo?”       

            “Yeah, Jess.”

            “Whatever I said—the night you left. I’m so sorry I said those things. You know I’ve never meant to hurt you.”

            He plays with his fingers. He bites his lip. He nods. “I know.”

            “If you’d—if you’d gone in that bathroom and that gun had bullets in it, next thing I would have done is shot myself too.”

            “We are a dangerous combination.”

            “We are indeed.”

            The deputy walks in, swinging some big keys on his fingers. “Bail’s up, preacher.”

            Jesse doesn’t move. “What about Tupelo?”

            “I’m fine, Jesse,” Tupelo says. Truth is, he thinks he might like to be alone for a while. “Besides, jail cell’s probably the safest place for me to be.”

            “What happened to being an unarmed black man in police custody?”

            “Other than the deputy shooting me for no reason, I’m safer in here than out there. Go on, now. I’ll be fine.”

            Not looking too pleased about it, Jesse gets up. “I’ll go to the bank. Soon as I can, I’ll be back, get you out of here.”

            “Can’t pay you back. I’d prefer you didn’t.”

            “Tough,” he says, as the door pulls back. Jesse glances back at him, a knowing eyebrow raised. “Oh, I meant to tell you earlier. Stop messing with my damn sign.” He smirks.

            Jesse steps outside the cell, and Tupelo suddenly can’t stand the sight of him walking away. “Hey, Jesse?” The man in black turns back, and Tupelo blows out a breath. “I’ll go to that stupid supper.” Crossing his arms, he scowls. “Don’t expect me to talk to anyone other than Eugene, though. He’s the only decent person in the county, and he damn near killed the prom queen.”

            Jesse smiles crookedly, and says, “I’ll be right back.”

            “Don’t rush,” Tupelo says. “I’m fine on my lonesome.

            He lays back, putting his arms behind his head. For a moment, he wishes the boys from Austin would show up and put him out of his lovesick misery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The burdens that you carry now  
> Are not of your creation  
> So let’s not weep for their evil deeds  
> But for their lack of imagination  
> Today’s the time for courage, babe  
> Tomorrow can be for forgiving  
> And if he touches you again with his stupid hands  
> His life won’t be worth living  
> 'Sweetheart Come' No More Shall We Part (2001)


	8. Love is for fools

The outfit Cassidy is wearing is truly ludicrous.

            He’s wearing a wicker sun hat under a massive poncho. His hands are covered in gardening gloves. His eyes hide behind aviator sunglasses. And he positively _reeks_ of sunscreen.

            “If you were a real vampire,” Tupelo says, “you would have burst into flames by now.”

            Cassidy goes off in that lilting tongue that Tupelo still can’t decipher. Tupelo lets it wash over him like a song, carrying his side of the folding table. They set it up a ways from the church, next to where the barbecue has been placed.

            Tupelo’s been here since before dawn. After Jesse bailed him out, he came back to sleep on the couch for a few hours. When he woke, Jesse was smoking cigarettes on the back step, not doing anything. So Tupelo got him off his ass, and they went inside to clean the church. It wasn’t that Tupelo wanted to make the place look any better. He just needed a project.

            They cleaned the cobwebs out of the corner, and shined up the pews, and Tupelo even polished the silver. The whole time, they reminisced about all the trouble they got into as kids. Telling each other stories that they already knew. When they got to the time that Tupelo bit off Donnie’s nipple, they laughed themselves sick.

            Tupelo could tell Jesse was worried about what the townsfolk were going to think, after what happened at the bar. So he kept him distracted, kept him talking. Kept a smile on his face.

            A vehicle comes down the road. Minivan. Emily. Tupelo rolls his eyes, and whips out the plastic table cloth he’s kept pinned under his arm. “Her highness,” he mutters. Cassidy jabbers some more, and Tupelo frowns at him. “Cassidy—in all seriousness, son. Is it a speech impediment, or are you drunk, or are you high?”

            What he gets in return is something that sounds like, “Lil ahl tree.”

            Tupelo just shrugs, watching as three kids come running out of the minivan. Emily glances over at Tupelo and Cassidy with a displeased frown, then walks towards the church. “Jesse!” she calls.

            Unbidden, Tupelo’s mouth curves into a smirk as he spreads the plastic over the table. He glances up as Cassidy says something, inquiry in his voice. “Oh,” Tupelo says, “I think I’m about to get a spanking.”

            He sees Jesse come out of the church, and he and Emily talk for a moment. Jesse drops his head back, then hollers at Tupelo, “What’d I tell you about messing with my sign?”

            “Just truth in advertising!” Tupelo calls back. Jesse shakes his head.

            Tupelo grins, but it fades as he watches Jesse and Emily together. She’s in another little chaste dress, hair pulled back. Looks like a china doll. Her focus is completely on Jesse. She lifts a hand, saying something, then brushes at his collar.

            Something in his stomach flips over. No, not something. Jealousy. Pure and simple.

            Chewing on his lower lip, he mutters to Cassidy, “Does he really not see how bad she wants him?”

            Cassidy glances back, and says, “Nope.”

            “Jesus, that was actually intelligible.”

            With a roll of the eyes, Cassidy speaks, and Tupelo loses him again. He ignores Cassidy, sneaking glances at how Jesse smiles at Emily. It’s a kind smile. It’s the smile of the man Jesse wishes he was. That’s what he gets to be around Emily.

            Cassidy catches his attention with a swift whistle. He gestures between the two of them, his eyebrows doing something independently of one another. Tupelo raises his brows, lost.

            With a sigh, Cassidy points at himself, then Tupelo. Then he makes a circle with the fingers on his left hand, and starts poking the index finger of his right through it.

            Cracking up, Tupelo smothers his smile as quickly as he’s able. “Sorry, Cass.” He slaps him on the arm, moving past him. “I like ‘em dark, not undead.”

            Cassidy calls something after him as Tupelo walks down the road to change the sign that currently reads ‘ROBERT COLLUM DAY: CELEBRATE RACISM WITH ALCOHOL.’

 

Tupelo takes a sip of his beer, leaning back against the reinforced wall. It’s cool and quiet in here. Smells of sod and earth, and that’s a scent he’s not taken in for some time.

            He had one look at the crowd that showed up to celebrate and immediately tapped out. Piled a paper plate high with hush puppies and ribs and potato salad, grabbed a bottle, and disappeared.

            He’s in the tornado shelter. The door is shored up with smooth boulders. The inside has a few seats, some canned food and bottled water, and two bibles. One time, Tupelo left some porn in here as a joke. He didn’t do that again—he admitted to the crime, but Jesse took the whupping. It was always that way with John Custer. Uptight and rigid as post oak.

            The beer’s cheap, but it’s cold, and that’s what counts. Tupelo puts his feet up on a crate, then picks up the ribs. He takes a bite, and his eyes roll over. “Oh yes,” he purrs. “Oh, thank you, lord.”

            Say what you want about rednecks. They always do the best barbecue.

            Tupelo takes a look at his boots. The blood came off them nice. He’s wearing the green jeans from the night he kicked Brian in the face. Blood didn’t entirely come out of those.

            He hears laughter and hollering from outside, and ignores it. Even as a kid, this is where you’d find him at church gatherings. He didn’t much care for crowds. Too much noise, too much ugliness. The adults always seemed on the edge of argument, a strange current constantly running under their skin. Annville’s peculiar for that. Tupelo’s only come across it a few other times, and only ever in small towns that are cut off from most other places. Everyone knows one another too well, and no one ever lets loose of their grudges.

            He could sense it as a child, and he has no intention of being a target as an adult.

            _When are you actually going to leave?_

That is the question. It’s Wednesday, and he’s been here since Saturday night. He can probably call Dany soon, see if she has anything for him. The lock box is still safe in the seat cushions of his car, unopened and undisturbed. The boys from Austin haven’t shown. It’s looking like they probably never will. Tupelo over reacted, thinking they’d follow that picture to Annville.

            Maybe it had just been an excuse to come find Jesse. Maybe it’s time to admit that.

            To what end, though? What was he expecting to find here? Jesse thinks he’s supposed to be here, doing God’s will. Tupelo can belittle him until the cows came home, but he knows Jesse isn’t going to leave. And, what, did he think that Jesse would want him now? Like this?

            Not that _this_ is bad. _This_ is pretty fucking spectacular. Tupelo is gorgeous and fierce and every inch the man he always intended on being. He’s got no issue with how he turned out.

            Only how he turned out is not what Jesse wants. Jesse wants a woman. Tupelo’s a lot of things, but that’s one he can’t be. Not for anything. Not even for true love.

            There’s a little tap on the door, and Tupelo startles. Who the hell is bothering him?

            But then a voice says, “Misser Tup’lo?”

            Relaxing, Tupelo says, “Hey, Eugene.” The boy opens the door, and Tupelo smiles. “Step into my office.”

            Eugene ducks inside, having a look around. “Is this safe?” he asks, sitting down on an old milk crate. “It doesn’ look like ours.”

            “Lemme guess. Yours looks more like a bunker.”

            “Uh huh.”

            Tupelo reaches up, bashing a fist against the ceiling a few times. “This is plenty safe, Eugene. It’s as old as the town. Older than the church, even. Survived every tornado ever come through Annville. Just because it’s a little beat up, it don’t mean it won’t do the job.”

            Eugene nods. He wraps his hands around his shins, looking down. His brow’s furrowed.

            _This child shot another one in the head_ , Tupelo marvels. _People are a strange lot_.

            “Something on your mind, Eugene?”

            Too quickly, the boy says, “No.” Tupelo leans forward, catching his eye. Eugene hesitates, then raises his shoulders. “My—dah told me—something.”

            Blowing out a sigh, Tupelo says, “I bet he did.” He sets his plate down on the ground, and crosses his arms. “What did your daddy say about me?”

            Reluctant, but unable to help himself, Eugene says, “He said—you’re a girl. And you’re—“ He swallows back his spit. “P’eacher’s gul’friend.” He wipes under his mouth, flinching.

            Tupelo begins laughing, but with a shake of the head, so Eugene knows the laughter’s not at his expense. “No and no. Your daddy is wrong on both accounts.”

            “Cuth—he said—“

            “Eugene, listen to me. Just because a person looks a certain way, doesn’t mean that says everything about them. I used to _look_ like a girl. Doesn’t mean I was one.” Eugene looks really confused, but too polite to pry, so Tupelo says, “Not to be blunt, but to put it in terms you’ll understand—you’re missing half your face. You don’t have a mouth. But just because you’re missing those things, doesn’t mean you’re not a person, right?”

            Eugene stares at him, and Tupelo realizes that was way too harsh. Only it’s too late to take back now. Eugene blinks, then says, “I gueth.”

            “So, a long time ago—from the moment I was born, people thought I was a girl. Only I wasn’t. So when I got old enough to do something about people having the wrong idea, I fixed my chest, and some other things too. Now people see me like they’re supposed to. I ain’t no girl. I’m a man.”

            “So you’re tran’gender.”

            After a moment, Tupelo drops his head. “Yes. Yes I am. God, why couldn’t I just say that to you? You’re a teenager, you have the internet. Of course you know what transgender is.” He cocks his head. “Well? I know you’re trying to get right with Christ. Does that mean you and I can’t be friends anymore?”

            Eugene seems surprised. “Oh—you don’ wan’ to be my friend.”

            “I’m already your friend.”

            “No,” Eugene says, pained. “No, tha’s….” He looks down at his hands in his lap.

            Tupelo studies him. “You think I don’t want to be your friend because of what you done to yourself and that girl?” Eugene looks at him, anguished. Tupelo nods slightly. “Yeah, well…I’ve done worse.”

            “No you haven’t.”

            “Well—okay, I’ll admit, I’ve never shot someone I loved. But I’ve killed men.”

            “You…you have?”

            “Yeah. Trust me, between the two of us, you’re the one who should be scared of me, Eugene. You should want to run away. I’ve got no need to run away from you. Next to Jesse Custer, I’m probably the scariest man in a five mile radius.”

            “Dah’ said Preacher—beat some guys up.”

            “He did.”

            “Said he did it—cuth they tried to hurt you.”

            “Naw. They didn’t try to hurt me. They tried to do something worse. They tried to shame me.” Tupelo shrugs. “Jesse’s a good guy. Wouldn’t stand for that.”

            “He called my dad. Athed him for me to come today. And to—church. On Sunday.”

            “I know.”

            “Cause you athked him.” Eugene swallows again, shaking his head at the motion.

            “I might have prompted him in the right direction. Jesse’s not perfect. He’s as quick to judge sometimes as the rest of the morons in this town.” Tupelo raises a hand. “Don’t tell me I’m wrong, kid. I know I’m right.”

            Eugene frowns. “Why—are you being—so nice to me?”

            Tupelo looks at him, then tells the truth. “Because we’re both monsters. And monsters have to stick together.”

            He thinks that might be too much truth to drop on the boy, but Eugene inhales, and nods. “Thank you,” he says.

            “For what?”

            “Fo’ saying it. But not saying it mean. Saying it because it’s jus’ true.”

            “Yeah, buddy.” Tupelo props his head up. “Hey, I got a really gruesome question for you.”

            “Oh. I dunno.”

            “Yeah, you’re right. It’s going too far.”

            “Well…okay.”

            “You had it to do over, would you still do it?” Eugene tries to answer immediately, but Tupelo holds out his hand. He shakes his head. “Not the answer you think I want to hear, or that God wants to hear. Not what you think you should feel. Not what everyone expects you to say. Tell me—if you knew then what you know now—would you have still pulled that trigger?”

            Eugene swallows a few times. His eyes wide, his mouth quivers slightly. “I don’t know,” he whispers.

            Tupelo leans forward, holding his eyes. “Hey. That’s okay.”

            “I haven’t—I haven’ even said that to _God_.”

            “He already knows,” Tupelo lies. “He just needs you to be honest with him. You do that, and you’re going to feel so much better.”

            “But—but that means—I’m a bad perthon—“

            “Eugene. I am a bad person. Trust me. You’re not a bad person. You just did something really, really fucked up.” Tupelo shrugs. “You can’t walk around your whole life, pretending everything is sunshine and rainbows when you’re dying inside. Trust me. That’s the real sin. Lying. Lying’s the worst thing you can do. It’ll destroy you, and everyone around you. I know that from personal experience.”

            It looks like Eugene might be about to cry, so Tupelo doesn’t say anything else. They sit there a moment, the boy hunched over.

            Finally, Tupelo can’t take it. “You want a hug or something?”

            Eugene laughs a little. “Woul—you mind?”

            Getting up, having to bend a little in the small shelter, Tupelo says, “No, honey, I don’t mind.”

            He leans down, wrapping his arms around Eugene. For a moment, the boy doesn’t seem to know how to react, and Tupelo wonders when the last time was that someone hugged this poor fucked up kid. But then Eugene reaches up, and hugs him back.

            Tupelo pats the back of his head. “And all will be well, and all will be well, and all will be well. My daddy used to say that.” He kisses Eugene’s hair, then steps back. “Feel better?”

            “Yessir.”

            “Good.” Tupelo sits back down, picking up his plate, and glances dubiously towards the door. “I’m glad someone got something out of this event other than alcohol poisoning and a mob mentality.”

            “You don’—like Robert Collum Day?”

            “Well, he was involved in lynching people who looked like me, Eugene, so no. I can’t say as I’m fond.” Tupelo points at his food. “You get something to eat? There must be something soft.”

            Eugene shrugs. Then he asks, “Who was your dad?”

            “Fella who used to work for Quincannon. Name of Jake. A good, good man. Kind of man I’ll never be. He died in a hunting accident, when I was little.”

            “My dad’s a good man,” Eugene says quietly.

            Tupelo reaches out a foot, and nudges him in the knee with his toe. Eugene catches his eyes, and they smile.

            “I know you’re down there.”

            They both look up, as Jesse opens the door. He bends down, looking at them both with a raised brow. “I said I’d come,” Tupelo responds. “Never said I’d mingle.”

            Stepping aside, Jesse nods towards the party. “Both of you. Get on out of there.”

            Eugene gets up immediately, and Tupelo groans. “Jesus, fine. It’s on your head, if this turns into a brawl. Eugene, you be my wingman. I’m not going out there alone.”

            As he walks out the door, he gives Jesse a shove.

            Taking a drink of his beer, he discovers Eugene looking at him in horror. “What?”

            “You pushed the _preacher_ ,” Eugene says.

            “Don’t worry, Eugene. Just ask Donnie Schenck. Preacher can take it.”

 

“Give it to Jesse,” Tupelo says, the cigarette just touching his lips.

            “Oh, come on,” Jesse protests.

            Tom says, “You play, Preacher?”

            “Not in a long time.”

            “Modesty looks weird as shit on you, Custer,” Tupelo teases. Emily clears her throat. Tupelo glances at her, wondering what her problem is. Oh, right. There’s kids around. Whatever.

            It’s gotten a little quieter. It’s eight o’clock on a weeknight, and some of the people with kids have taken off. Tom Crystal pulled out a guitar awhile back and has been noodling at it. Tupelo’s stayed close to Jesse, keeping away from anyone who might want to start a ruckus.

            Most people are staying clear of Jesse. Fact of the matter is, they’re looking at him with more respect than they showed him in church on Sunday. Tupelo’s got the good grace not to bring that up.

            Tupelo elbows him. “Come on. I know you like to show off.”

            Jesse frowns at him, then reaches out for the guitar. Tupelo smiles crookedly, breathing in smoke. He has a full stomach, and he’s only had the one beer over the course of the evening. No one’s said anything terrible, and the sun’s warm on his neck instead of burning.

            Testing out the strings, Jesse furrows his brow as he acquaints himself with the instrument. Then he does a little finger picking.

            Tom pushes his cap up, saying, “You been holding back, Preacher.”

            “He can play the banjo some too,” Tupelo pipes up.

            Jesse rolls his eyes. “Not in years, so don’t even think about it.”

            “Come on, Preacher. Show off.”

            Jesse glances up at him. “Make you a deal. I’ll play if you sing.”

            “Oh, Christ, Custer—“ Emily coughs again, and Tupelo turns to her. “You need a lozenge or something?” He looks at the baby faced man behind her who’s been making eyes at her all evening. “Emily seems to have something stuck in her throat. Why don’t you go get her some water?” The man’s pushing himself up before Emily can even protest, her cheeks turning red.

            The fingers of his left hand moving experimentally over the frets, Jesse asks, “What do you want to do? ‘Pretty Polly’?”

            “Mm, I don’t remember all of that one. Can you do ‘Henry Lee?’”

            “We talking Dick Justice or Nick Cave?”

            If they were alone, Tupelo would tease, _be still my heart_ , but since they’re in a small group, Tupelo just says, “What about ‘Darlin’ Cory’? How about that one?” Jesse nods appreciatively, figuring out the key. “Hey, kids, you want to hear a song about murder?”

            “Go and play,” Emily instructs them. Her kids start protesting, and she gives them fiery eyes. “Now!” Wilting flower until she has to be a mother. Ha. Eventually, she’ll have Jesse plain whipped.

            Smirking, Tupelo nods as Jesse begins to play. He’s got those strong hands, and those nimble fingers. The version he’s playing is slower. It was a song they heard a lot growing up. This one sounds like the Burl Ives’ cover.

            Relaxing, Tupelo opens his mouth, and sings, “Wake up, wake up, darlin’ Cory, what makes you sleep so sound?” His lips curve upwards automatically at the memory. “The revenue officers are coming, gonna tear your still-house down.”

            He’s gotten used to singing only for himself. In the shower, or in the car. No one in his current life knows he has a decent enough voice, or that he has a hell of a memory for murder ballads.

            It’s so effortless. Jesse on the guitar, Tupelo singing the song of a tough woman with a gun. Tupelo thinks of the six string Jesse bought after that disastrous venture with the komodo dragon. How they’d sit out on the balcony, amusing one another into the wee hours with songs about liquor and fighting and revenge. It seems a million years ago.

            And it seems like the blink of an eye.

           

“Thanks for nothing, by the way.”

            Truly confused, Tupelo says, “What’d I do this time?”

            They’re standing at the kitchen sink. Everyone’s gone for the night, apparently moved the party to someone named Edgar’s place. Cassidy took off with them, leaving Jesse and Tupelo with the cleanup. Emily had to take the kids home, and said she’d come back to help, but Jesse told her not to. Tupelo gave her a death gaze, hoping she’d take the hint.

            Tupelo is washing dishes, and Jesse’s drying. They’ve put the extra food into tupperware containers, and are mostly working on washing the casserole dishes before the food really has time to set. Sun is finally below the horizon, but it’s just bright enough that they haven’t turned the lights on in the kitchen. After all, the window faces south.

            “The guitar.”

            Grinning, Tupelo counters, “You loved it.”

            “I don’t like—“

            “Being the center of attention? Yeah, I bet you tell yourself that every Sunday before you go stand out there on the pedestal.”

            “It’s a pulpit,” Jesse says patiently. “And I stand behind it.”

            Scrubbing at a tenacious scrap of something burned, Tupelo says, “Bet it felt good though. When’s the last time you played?”

            “Gosh. A year or more?”

            “Whatever happened to yours?”

            “Sold it.”

            “That’s a shame.”

            “You sing much?”

            “No.”

            “Now _there’s_ the shame.”

            Tupelo glances up at him with a small smile. “I still sound okay? Gotta be pretty different than the old days.”

            “It is. But you still sound good.” Jesse snorts. “You still remember all the gunslinger songs. Even remembered the last verse of ‘Pretty Polly,’ despite your demurrals.”

            “Would have sounded better with the banjo. I was surprised you didn’t want to do any Cash.”

            “I am a cliché, but maybe today I didn’t feel like being that much of a cliché.”

            Tupelo narrows his eyes at him, then turns, a hand on his hip. “Something’s off about you.”

            “Nothing’s off about me.”

            “Yes it is. I can’t put my finger on it—“ Tupelo frowns, standing on tiptoes and gazing at Jesse’s face. The man stands there, amiably accepting the inspection. Nothing really strange about his face. There’s the hint of a smile on his lips, but that’s not bad. Dropping onto the balls of his feet, Tupelo looks over Jesse’s clothes. Black as always, save that starched white collar and the silver collar clips.

            It’s going to drive Tupelo crazy if he doesn’t figure it out.

            Suddenly, it hits him. He leans forward, sniffing at Jesse’s shoulder. “Holy _shit_ ,” he says. “You don’t smell like booze.”

            Jesse bursts out laughing, and shoves him away. Tupelo catches himself on the fridge. “You’re a real asshole, you know that?”

            “I’m being serious!” Tupelo gives him a once over. “Goddamn. Did you even have a drink tonight?”

            Jesse shakes his head a little, not so much in confirmation as exasperation. But then he stops and thinks about it. “Huh.”

            “You didn’t,” Tupelo says, surprised. He grabs Jesse’s arms, lifting his hand. “You okay? Any DTs?”

            Jesse shakes him off. “Listen. Just because you are my guest does not mean I won’t smack you.” Jesse takes the casserole dish out of his hand. He shakes his head. “It’s not like I made a concerted effort not to. I just—didn’t feel the urge, I guess.”

            “Jesse Custer, have I healed you with the power of song?”

            Chuckling, Jesse dries off the casserole dish, and adds it to the pile. Neither of them have any idea who all the dishes belong to. Jesse says it’s something Emily will know.

            Tupelo notices the lines around Jesse’s eyes. They weren’t always there. He’s getting older. They both are. Jesse wears it well, though. He’s going to be one of those men who look better and better as the years roll on.

            Tupelo has no idea what he’ll look like. It’s a mystery.

            “You said those boys from Austin stole all your music.”

            “They did, the bastards.” Tupelo growls. “It’s all digital, though, so I can download it again.”

            “I did not just hear you say that.”

            “Oh, please. Go jack off in a corner, blabbering on about how much warmer vinyl sounds. You know what vinyl sounds like? Scratchy. At least on my computer I can actually hear the song.”

            “You’ve changed,” Jesse says dolefully.

            “You _just_ noticed?”

            With a grin, Jesse glances up at the window. “You gonna stay here tonight?”

            “Probably should go back to Walter’s. Make sure he’s made it back into the house. If he’s too scared to enter it when he can actually see the floor, I might have to figure out a way to slowly introduce him to his new environment.” Tupelo inhales, shrugging. “I don’t have to go for a while, though. There’s no rush.”

            Jesse nods, and Tupelo wants to just lean against him, the way he used to when they did chores. Just a little _hello_ , because they had to be in contact.

            “What in the hell is on this thing?” Tupelo says, grimacing. “Do you have steel wool?”

            “Steel wool,” Jesse repeats.

            “Yeah.”

            “For glass?”

            “What else would I use?”

            “How about elbow grease?”

            Tupelo looks at him from under his brows. “Oh really? Well.” He pulls off the dishwashing gloves with a snap. “If you’re such an _expert_ , Preacher, why don’t you show me how it’s done?”

            “Oh no. I wouldn’t want to impose—“

            Tupelo grabs him by the hips, moving him to the left, and snatches the drying cloth from his hands. “Go on, then. Impress me.”

            Jesse looks at the dishes a moment, then rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t actually know if you shouldn’t use steel wool on glass.”

            “I know! I just didn’t know what else to do with it. It’s that or a nuke, but I feel like the second option might result in some collateral damage.” Tupelo shrugs, resting his hands on the edge of the sink. “But you’re there now. So put on those pretty pink gloves, Preacher, and let’s see you scrub.”

            With a roll of the eyes, Jesse is about to say something before his eyes narrow. “You got something caught in your hair.”

            Tupelo reaches up, running a hand through his curls. “What? Did I get it?”

            “No—hold on.” Tupelo tilts his head towards Jesse, and Jesse pulls out a tiny white feather. “Been playing in the chicken coop again?”

            “Probably has more to do with the cheap pillows you got on the couch,” Tupelo retorts, plucking the feather from Jesse’s fingers. He holds it up, saying, “Make a wish,” then blows on it.

            “I think that’s for eyelashes,” Jesse says as the feather drifts down on the windowsill. He’s still looking at Tupelo’s hair.

            “I got another one in there?”

            Jesse shakes his head a little. “No,” he says quietly.

            Tupelo stills a moment, then turns his attention back to the sink. He wipes around it with the cloth.

            “I like what you did with your hair.”

            “Yeah?”

            “Mm.” And Tupelo might die, because Jesse reaches up and touches the back of his head, where curls meet shaved skin. “Looks really—modern.”

            He can’t even tease Jesse for the awkward words. Jesse’s gently touching his hair, running his fingers hesitantly over his curls. Tupelo leans further into the touch. He can’t stop himself. It’s Jesse, and his body craves him.

            The kitchen has gone so quiet. Tupelo thinks he might be able to hear his own heartbeat, if he closed his eyes and concentrated hard enough.

            “That okay?” Jesse whispers.

            Tupelo closes his eyes a moment, giving the smallest of nods.

            He doesn’t know what else to say or do, so he turns his body further towards Jesse, reaching up, and grazes a finger over one of the collar clips. “Been meaning to tell you,” he murmurs. “I really like these. Belt buckle’s still stupid…but I like these.”

            Jesse glances down, and neither of them can look at each other. The air is thick with tension, and Tupelo thinks that if he looked at Jesse right now, he’d light on fire or one or both of them would run. “I hoped you would. You always said you liked a man who wore them.”           

            He’s wearing these things because Tupelo said something, once. He can barely remember. But Jesse has.

            Jesse’s head cups to the back of Tupelo’s head. His fingertips against the short shaved hair is almost more than Tupelo can stand. He wants so much, but right now he is terrified. He is electric and he is absolutely _terrified_.

            With a gentle prompt, Jesse tilts Tupelo’s head towards him slightly. It’s a question. Tupelo looks at Jesse’s mouth. They’re not that far from one another now. Truth is, they’re pretty close. Tupelo’s almost tucked up under Jesse’s arm.

            He swallows, gazing on Jesse’s mouth.

            Jesse bends down, and Tupelo leans up, their lips meeting.

            It is very little like most of the kisses they shared. The last time they were shy with each other was when they were twelve and doing this for the very first time, and even then Tupelo was pretending like he knew what he was doing. This time, he doesn’t have it in him to pretend. He can barely breathe, he’s so afraid that this moment will end badly.

            Jesse’s lips carefully move against his, and Tupelo can feel their facial hair brushing, and he wonders if Jesse will be disgusted, if he’ll realize this is a terrible idea.

            Only Jesse bends further down, kissing Tupelo like this is something he wants.

            Oh.

Tupelo realizes that Jesse _does_ want this.

            Tupelo slips an arm behind Jesse’s back, laying his hand flat between his shoulder blades. Their sides are flush now, and the kiss is tender and intense and a gift. It’s a fucking gift, and Tupelo wants to cry, because he’s so relieved. He’s wanted this so badly, and he didn’t even realize.

            He parts his lips, just a little, and this is so familiar. Jesse is so familiar.

            This is how it was meant to be.

            There’s a small intake of breath from behind them, and all of a sudden Jesse’s pushed away from him. Actually physically pushed, three feet of space between the two of them.

            Standing in the living room doorway is Emily, who’s changed into jeans and a t-shirt. She’s wide eyed and heartbroken and Tupelo doesn’t give a damn about her.

            What he cares about is how Jesse wipes his mouth off, saying, “Emily—we weren’t—“

            He closes his eyes, dropping his head. He puts the butt of his palm to his forehead. He looks like a man who’s trapped.

            Tupelo’s moving a second later. He strides past Jesse as his own heart tears down the middle. Grabbing the kitchen door, he throws it open so hard that the window shatters, then he runs away, as fast as he can.

 

It’s the first time since hitting town that he’s seen so many stars. You don’t get a sky like this in Austin.

            Tupelo sniffs, swiping under his eyes again. He didn’t outright sob, but he’s had a good cry, and that’s fine. Sometimes it helps to have a good cry. And despite what some might think, it doesn’t make him any less of a man. He doesn’t think it’s particularly brave to not show how you feel.

            He sits on the hood of his care, legs pulled up underneath himself. He just drove off road, regardless of how little the car seemed to enjoy that, out into the middle of what they used to call the wastelands. It’s empty fields where almost nothing grows save for grass, and even that looks like it’s contemplating death.

            _I have been a fool_.

            Weak and stupid and reckless. Maybe he _is_ all those things in the end.

            Tupelo pulls himself back. It’s not weak, loving someone. Loving Jesse has always been one of the best things about himself. The only stronger thing he had was his need for survival. As someone who’s been loved by precious few in his lifetime, he knows the power love can have. Feeling this way for somebody—it’s not a weakness. It just means he’s human.

            Stupid, though—yes, he’s been stupid. Hanging around, in the hopes that Jesse would love him back. He still loves Jesse. It doesn’t matter that it’s been five years. It’s true love. Tupelo’s not sentimental about much, and if anyone else dared tell him something about true love, he’d just roll his eyes, but he doesn’t doubt that Jesse is his soulmate, even if he doesn’t believe people have souls. The two of them were just _meant_. Maybe there isn’t a God, but there are some things that can’t be explained, and one of them is that in all the world, Tupelo knows there’s only the one person who’s supposed to be his.

            Except he’s not blind. He knows it won’t happen.

            Sure, Jesse’s his soulmate. But a person can’t change who they are. Tupelo knows that better than most. He tried for decades to be something he wasn’t, so that Jesse would still be his friend, would still love him, would still want him, but in the end it almost killed him. A person can’t change the core of themselves. He is who is, and Jesse’s who he is. Jesse’s straight. He doesn’t want Tupelo. He wants Tulip, and was willing for a moment to pretend like there was no difference.

            There’s a world of difference. The one’s the truth, and the other’s a lie, and Tupelo’s sick to death of lies.

            His face is damp. Tupelo wipes at it with both hands, gazing upwards. It’s so beautiful out here. Sky seems so big, the stars so bright—it’s a wonder. It makes him feel small, which is good. Maybe that’ll help puncture the illusion that his problems are so significant.

            They’re not. He loves a man who loves another woman. That’s a problem for the both of them, because Tupelo can’t be loved back in the way he deserves, and Jesse loves someone who doesn’t exist. It is a very human problem, and there’s as many of those as stars in the sky.

            Maybe he did want to see if Jesse would still love him. And maybe a part of him does. It sure as hell didn’t just feel like curiosity led to that kiss. But his reaction—pushing Tupelo away the second someone else could see—nope. Just nope.

            A lifetime of hiding is enough. He has done his time. And maybe it would feel good, to go back there and forget for a little while about reality. Kiss Jesse again, take him to bed, love him with fingers and mouth and body. But Jesse would never want anyone to know. He’s a man of God, that’s what he wants to be. He wants a woman—no, he _needs_ a woman.

            So it’s time to face facts and be a grown up. He’s done this before. He left Jesse so that he wouldn’t have to hide anymore. No point in moving backwards.

            He’s too wrung out to do anything else tonight. He’ll catch a few hours in the car, and in the morning, he’ll get on the road and leave this place. It’s high past time.

            Tupelo lays back against the windshield, his hands on his stomach. He takes a deep breath, watching the sky slowly move. He sings quietly to himself and watches the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love is for fools and all fools are lovers  
> It’s raining on my house and none of the others  
> Love is for fools and God knows I’m still one  
> 'Deep in the Woods' The Bad Seed (1983)
> 
> You can always find me at e-sebastian.tumblr.com. I'd try embedding that link again, but after multiple attempts I've learned it's an exercise in futility.   
> Also! Still having problems with some paragraphs not indenting. If anyone knows a way around that, please let me know.


	9. If the Devil comes collecting

He rolls into town a little after ten. It took some doing to get the car back onto the road out of the fields, and also to figure out where the hell he was. The urge to just peel out of Culberson County is strong, but there’s a minor problem: he’s almost out of gas. It’s forty miles between here and the next town, and after the night he had, he’s sure as hell not dealing with the Chevelle dying on him.

            So Tupelo drives back into Annville, coming in from the north, the old road that led out to the Ericksons’ farm. The road’s barely used, but Tupelo knows it well. One of the times he ran away from foster care, he hid in the old farm house for over a week. Jesse brought him food and stayed with him as long as he could until he had to run back to his grandmother’s. God forbid she ever find out who Jesse was consorting with.

            That’s one of the few reliefs of coming back here. Finding out that miserable old buzzard was dead. Tupelo wonders how Jesse did it. Both the old woman, and Jody. However it went down, it sure as hell couldn’t have been enough.

            Rain starts to spit on his windshield as he pulls onto the pothole littered streets of north Annville. This is his uncle’s neighbourhood, or rather, it’s the generally black part of town. The roads don’t see much love. _That’s a shock_ , Tupelo thinks, and for a second wonders if he should check in on Walter before he goes.

            Nah. Walter hasn’t been conscious a single time since he was back. He’s moved from place to place, but Tupelo’s never actually seen him do so. It’s almost like the man’s a wizard.

            _Yes, Tupelo. A very, very drunk wizard. The absolute best kind_.

            Shaking his head, he drives through north Annville, headed towards the gas station.

            Fill up the tank, and head west. Straight through to New Mexico. And then….

            Well, then, who the hell knows.

            Tupelo jams his foot down on the brakes, hands tightening around the wheel. He gazes across the intersection, to the gas station.

            At the pump is a BMW. Red. That’s a terrible, terrible idea. Didn’t they hear that red cars are the most likely to be stolen?

            And pumping the gas is Brian. His face looks like hell. Both eyes black, nose purple—yeah, Tupelo certainly did a number on the bastard. He’s blissfully unaware of his surroundings, leaning one arm on top of the car.

            Tupelo looks through the windows at the front of the gas station. There’s a man inside talking to an attendant. He’s white, possibly, with dark brown hair and tanned skin. Expensive dress shirt tucked in neatly, a watch large enough that Tupelo can see it across the street.

            The man has no expression on his face. But he holds his hand at about chin height, then makes a gesture with his hand, like something bursting around his head.

            Or, _have you seen someone this height with curls_?

            Without looking away from the gas station, Tupelo reaches back, and pulls his rifle out from where it’s been hiding under some clothes. He doesn’t mess around with shotguns—no, he’s a better shot than that. Laying it across his lap, he opens the glove box, and tosses a revolver on the passenger seat. Reaching past the wet wipes he keeps for when he eats in the car, his hands find a few rounds. Picking them up, he closes the glove box, and begins loading the rifle.

            Not once have his eyes wavered.

            When the rifle’s bolted, Tupelo lays it across his lap, then takes the vehicle out of park, his foot pressing against the brakes. Even with the rain picking up, he lowers the windows. Then he takes hold of the steering wheel, and switches his foot to the gas.

            The car screeches across the street, and Brian—stupid but pretty (except no longer so pretty)—finally raises his head. By that point, Tupelo’s already spinning the wheel, coming up alongside the gas station. Slamming on the brakes, he stays still long enough to grin out the window at Brian.

            “Miss me, asshole?”

            He puts his foot back on the gas as Brian yells for the other man, but Tupelo’s burning rubber.

            Only not too fast. It’s not like he doesn’t want them to catch up.

            He blows through every intersection between the gas station and the edge of town, getting on the road heading east. He keeps his eyes on the rear-view mirror, watching the red BMW in the distance.

            He sure as hell hopes the Annville Sheriff’s Department doesn’t get any big ideas about doing their job today. Tupelo would much rather settle this himself.

            Keeping a good mile between him and the BMW, Tupelo waits until hitting the turn off south. The rain is falling a little faster, but not so fast as to be dangerous. Well, maybe for him. Most people would never dream about doing what he’s going to.

            Reckless, though, is on his hypothetical resume.

            Taking the corner onto the south road, now a good five miles from town, Tupelo eases off the gas a little. Reaching over with his right hand, he picks up the revolver. It’s a Colt Anaconda. Double action, .44 Magnum. He went for the medium sized barrel. The short felt good in his hand, but he wanted something that would scare people, and the longest just said _I’m compensating for the fact that I don’t have a dick_.

            Glancing between the road and the revolver, Tupelo gives the chamber a quick inspection. Fully loaded, just like he left it. Outstanding. He takes the wheel with both hands, still clutching the revolver, and watches the car pursuing him in the rear-view.

            “C’mon now,” he murmurs as the BMW gains quickly on him.

            He watches the other car shimmy a little as it either hits a pothole or a slick of rain on the road. Tupelo and the Chevelle are steady as ever. These are the roads he taught himself to drive on, long before he was old enough to have a license. He’s as comfortable having a high speed chase on the wracked roads outside Annville as he would be on a newly paved highway.

            The driver—it won’t be Brian. Brian wasn’t that good, and it sounds like his friend’s the real problem. He’s coming up on Tupelo at near suicidal speeds.

            Nodding slightly, Tupelo says, “C’mon now.”

            The BMW races over the empty road in the rain, and Tupelo can hear its engine working. He’s being pelted in the face by rain drops, but it’s not like he can lower his windows. Besides, these bastards already made him hang off the side of his building buck ass nude. He can handle a little discomfort.

            The BMW is getting so close that Tupelo figures that they’ll either try and outrun him and cut him off, or start firing. The thing is, after his brief encounter with Brian, he doesn’t really see the man as the type to lean out a window with a gun. Probably be too worried about getting his shirt wet in the rain. So they’ll try to get ahead of him.

            Good. That’s real good.

            Tupelo considers taking off his seatbelt, just to give himself an extra second later on, but then he sees a strike of lightning in the distance and figures, _nope_. The rain might turn to something nastier in just a moment, and he’ll have to risk it.

            The BMW is finally about three car lengths away. That’ll do.

            Tupelo yanks on the wheel with one hand, and then the hand with the revolver works the handbrake. The car does a 180, going into a drift—or hydroplaning, if he wants to admit it—and lets him look right at the oncoming BMW.

            Left hand on the wheel, he lifts the Anaconda and fires all six rounds at the windshield of the other car.

            Tossing aside the revolver, Tupelo turns into the skid, gently laying into the brake this time. The car finishes its wide circle, coming to rest, and he parks.

            Tupelo surveys the damage. The BMW has gone off the road, slamming into the ditch.

            He tosses off the seatbelt, kicking open the door, and he’s running across the road with the rifle in his hands. Flicking the safety off, he puts the rifle to his shoulder and comes to a stop over the car, aiming down into the vehicle.

            The driver’s been hit, and so has Brian. Tupelo managed to put all six shots into the windows, and he’s blown out the driver’s side one. The driver is much worse off than Brian, who seems to only be missing an ear. The thin man with dark brown hair has taken a shot to the upper right of his chest, just below his shoulder.

            Brian’s freaking out, but the driver just has his hands over his own wound, breathing steadily through his nose.

            “You can consider the first six ones warning shots,” Tupelo says, aiming at the driver’s head.

            With a glance at him, the driver says breathlessly, “You whore. You fucking whore.”

            “Think you mean your boyfriend there. He’s the one stepped out on you.”

            “You shot us!” Brian screams.

            “Hell yes, I shot you. What do you think I was going to do? Let you shoot me first?” Keeping the rifle nice and tight against his shoulder, Tupelo says, “I want you to throw your weapons out the window.” Neither of them move, Brian whimpering and touching his ear, the driver ignoring them both. “Need I remind you, I clipped you both without even stopping my car. Guess what I can do to you at this range? Your weapons, gentlemen.”

            The driver says to Brian, “Do it.”

            Flinching, Brian throws a little Glock out the window, then reaches into the backseat.

            While he does, Tupelo says, “Since you seem to be the brains of the operation—as it’s sure as hell not your dumb ass boyfriend—can I get your name?”

            He just gives Tupelo another brief, uninterested glance. “Davis.”

            “Well—Davis. Let me make something abundantly fucking clear to y’all. Don’t come back here. Not yourselves, not with an army. You got issue, you take it up with Grail Industries. I already made the drop. I’m just waiting for my money, and I’ll be leaving town, now that I know you fools have shown up.”

            Brian tosses an identical Glock out the window, and looks to Davis. Gazing forward, Davis says, “You still have it. We know you do.”     

            “I don’t. I don’t even know what _it_ was. I gave the box to some guy two days ago, and I’m just waiting on payment. No reason for you to stick around.”

            He really looks at Tupelo then. He’s got dark eyes. The kind that are marked as brown on a form, but really, they’re black. “I’ve got plenty of reason. You stole from me. And you hurt what’s mine.”

            “Yes, I stole from you. Because I was paid to. That’s the line of business we are in. You can’t do your job, you don’t cry to me about it. And as to pretty boy’s face over there, maybe you should keep a shorter leash on him, or at least teach him some manners if he wants to roam free.” Tupelo tilts his head, keeping his rifle aimed right at Davis’ brain. “Now, I need your weapon too. The one your idiot boyfriend keeps glancing at in your door.”

            Davis sets his jaw. Then he reaches down, and drops an old pistol over the side of the door.

            “Excellent. So here’s what we’re going to do. You have a problem? You take it up with Grail. Next time I see your faces, I shoot to kill. Is that in any way unclear?”

            Davis says, “I—am going to hurt you.”

            “Fine, then I’m gonna kill you,” Tupelo responds, tightening his finger around the trigger.

            “No!” Brian yelps. He reaches out a hand. “No—no, we’ll go. We’ll go.” He looks at his boyfriend desperately. “Let’s go. Please—please, let’s go.”    

            Davis mulls it over, and Tupelo figures it’s 50/50. Either the man is pragmatic, or Tupelo has to blow his brains out, and then Brian’s, just to make it a clean sweep.

            Finally, Davis says, “Okay.” Grunting as he flexes his shoulder, he reaches out, turning the engine back on. Too proud to change places with Brian, even though he has a chest wound. “I’d advise you to steer clear of Austin.”

            “I’d advise you to steer clear of West Texas,” Tupelo retorts.

            Davis gives him one more look, then the car begins rolling forward. It pulls back up on the road, and Tupelo stands there with his rifle raised until it begins to fade from sight.

           

Tupelo tears past the sign that reads ‘MADE FROM 100% RECYCLED THOUGHT’ and up the road to the church. The rain’s let up slightly, but the clouds in the distance are an ominous black-grey, and Tupelo can’t tell which direction they’re heading.

            He sees someone coming out of the church, rolling his eyes when he sees that it’s Emily, and parks the car. Jumping out, he slams the door and heads for the steps.

            Emily wavers at the sight of him, but then stands her ground and says, “Hey!”

            Tupelo veers from his path and strides right up to her.

            Emily looks a little taken aback, but doesn’t move.

            Tupelo plants himself right in front of her, and puts up his hands. “Chill the hell out. There’s no fight here. There is literally no reason for you to worry your pretty little head or let those pretty blue eyes well up with tears, because you’ve already won. I’m not a moron. Jesse doesn’t want me, he just got confused and nostalgic about the past, and I let it happen because I love him more than you could ever love anything, including those plug ugly children of yours. But Emily, you are the chosen one. He’s a preacher, and you were born to be a preacher’s wife. That’s an inevitability, like the sun coming up or Jesse drinking himself to death before he’s fifty. I am just here to tell him about some business, and then I’m getting the hell away from you and him and this whole inbred mess of a town. Got it? Good.”

            Tupelo turns for the church.

            Just as quickly, he turns in a circle and adds, “And by the way, brace yourself for the moment when he finally stops being blind enough to recognize that you’ve been giving him googoo eyes from time out of mind. It’s probably the first time you’ll ever have a man not scared to go down on you.”

            He bounds up the stairs into the church, tossing the door shut behind himself.

            “Jesse!” he hollers.

            He’s striding down the aisle when Jesse emerges from the back door. “Tulip?” Jesse stops immediately, cringing. “Fuck—fuck, I’m sorry—“

            “Oh, to hell with that,” Tupelo says, waving him off. “You hurt me a hell of a lot worse than that yesterday, and I’m not in the mood to beat you over the head with a ‘you should be more understanding’ stick.” Putting his hands on his hips, he finally starts to catch his breath, and realizes he’s been holding it since he first spotted the BMW at the gas station. Swallowing, Tupelo looks at Jesse. “Boys from Austin showed up.”

            Jesse’s face hardens. “Where are they?” he asks, already moving back, and Tupelo knows that it’s to go get guns.

            Texas. It seems completely reasonable that a man who preaches love and forgiveness would also be armed to the teeth.         

            “Probably headed for Balmorhea. They’ll need a hospital pretty bad, and they won’t know about the one out at Quincannon’s.” Jesse frowns, and Tupelo rolls his eyes. “Like I couldn’t take care of it myself. I’m just telling you—I was right. They followed me here. Probably know about you. I don’t know if they’re coming back or not. Won’t be for a few days at least. Messed the one guy up pretty bad.”

            “How bad?”

            “Chest wound,” Tupelo says, tapping under his shoulder. “He’ll be lucky he’s still breathing, they get to Balmorhea. The other one, looks like I shot off his ear. He’s the coward of the pair, though, so I’m not real worried about him. Other guy—Davis—he’s the one might be stupid enough to come back, once he’s able to stand.” He sighs, trying to shake off the dregs of adrenaline. “I got their guns, though, so that might slow them up some too. Don’t know how connected they are, how fast they can rearm. They’re driving a BMW, though, so could be fast.”

            “A BMW?”

            “Red.”

            “Morons,” Jesse mutters. He glances Tupelo over from boots to hair. “You okay?”

            “Might have done some damage to my tires, but that’s the extent of it. I’m out of ammunition for my Anaconda. You don’t have some .44 ammo laying around, do you?”

            “I do. Boxful. Yours, you want it.”

            “I want it.”

            Jesse pivots, heading for the house, and Tupelo follows. Only Jesse stops abruptly, and turns around.

            “No,” Tupelo says firmly. “Not now.”

            “About last night—“

            “I ain’t got the _time_!” Tupelo says in exasperation. “Listen, I get it. I’m not a fool. We’ve got a past, and it’s hard to distinguish sometimes—God knows I find it difficult—but I get that it was a mistake and you’re sorry, and fine, just fine, okay? Can we please just get those bullets so I can get out of here?”

            Jesse pulls his lips in. When he does that, he looks like an unhappy cat. Tupelo forgot that he used to think of him like that.

            Shifting, putting his feet apart like he’s bracing himself, Jesse says, “What if it wasn’t a mistake?”

            Tupelo gazes at him, at his stubborn, vulnerable face, and groans.

            Putting his hands to his face, Tupelo pleads, “Don’t. Jesse, please don’t say that.”

            “Why?”

            “Because you don’t mean it.”

            “Who’re you to tell me what I do and don’t mean—“

            “Your best friend! The one who loves you best! I’m the one who knows you—“

            “If you know me so damn well, you’d know I’d never—“ Jesse pulls a short little breath through his nose. “I’d never stop loving you,” he says, sounding a bit frightened by that.

            “Jesse,” Tupelo whispers. “Don’t do this. Come on now.”

            Jesse starts shaking his head. “No. No, you can’t—you can’t tell me—you can’t come back here, say you still love me, over and over again, and expect that I don’t love you back. You know me? You know that’s something I just can’t do.”

            “You love someone who doesn’t exist.”

            “You’re right in front of me—“

            “Jesus, Jesse—you don’t love _me_. You love Tulip. She’s about as real as God is. You’ve got a bad habit of loving people who ain’t real.”

            Jesse steps closer, and Tupelo shies back. Biting his lip, Jesse bends down to look Tupelo in the eyes. “Doesn’t mean a thing to me what your name is. You’re _you_.”

            “It matters to me, Jesse. It matters to me a whole hell of a lot. Matters so much I left you over it.”

            “And I don’t understand. I’m not going to lie to you and say I understand. It’s—Jesus, it is so much, and maybe I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but look at me. You look at me, O’Hare.” Jesse shakes his head again, eyes certain. “I love you. I do.”

            Tupelo sticks his hands into his hair, closing his eyes. This isn’t happening. He cannot deal with this right now. Or maybe ever.

            When Jesse touches his face, Tupelo ducks back, quick as a spooked horse. Jesse cringes, but he doesn’t try to get closer right away.

            “You love me so much,” Tupelo asks, “why’d you act like I had the plague when Emily came in last night? Huh? If what I am doesn’t matter to you, why’d you look like you’re ashamed of me?”

            “Because….”

            “Because you are ashamed of me.”

            “ _No_ ,” Jesse says vehemently. “I’ll never be ashamed of you.”

            “You pushed me away. You wiped off your _mouth_. Like I was diseased—“

            “I didn’t know what to do.”

            “I can’t help you with that.”

            “You could,” Jesse says, and Tupelo frowns, not understanding. “You could, if you’d just stop assuming and help me here. This is—you have had years to think about this, and you are stubborn. You’ve always been the stubbornest, most difficult person I ever met. You’ve had all this time, and I’ve had days. Do you understand? I’ve had days to try and work on this, and I don’t know what the hell’s going on. All I know is you’re here, and you’re in front of me, and you have to be insane to think I’ll let you walk away from me again. Not again.” Face screwing up, Jesse’s hands fold into fists. “So help me God, I’ll knock you out and tie you up in the attic with Cassidy if I have to. But you ain’t leaving me again, acting like I never loved you like you loved me. It’s not fair.”

            Oh God. It would be so easy to listen. To not be logical, to let all those years of trying to build himself back up fall to the wayside and just believe in the power of love conquering all.

            But he’s an adult, and sometimes love isn’t enough.

            “Give me your hand,” Tupelo says quietly.

            Jesse can tell it’s not going to be anything good. Nonetheless, he holds out his right hand.

            Tupelo pulls his hand over to his stomach, pressing it just beneath his navel. “There,” he says, feeling when Jesse’s fingers find the scar. “Hysterectomy. I’ll never have any babies.”

            Holding his gaze, Jesse replies, “We always said we never wanted kids.”

            Drawing Jesse’s hand upwards, Tupelo pulls his fingers across the crescent shaped scars where his breasts once were. “Those are gone. And they’re not ever coming back.”

            “You want me to say I don’t miss them, that’d be a lie. I loved them. But a body isn’t a person. It’s just a body.”

            Hissing, Tupelo grabs Jesse’s other hand, and puts both of them to his face. “Do you feel that?” he asks, rubbing Jesse’s palms over his stubble. “You feel that on my face?”

            “Feels a lot like mine.”

            “But look at it. Look at my face, and look at me, and know that this is the face everyone would see you with when they saw you with me.” Jesse’s eyes flicker, and Tupelo nods. “That’s what it would be, Jesse. All those people, they’d see you with me, and they wouldn’t rationalize like you do. They wouldn’t think about being in love with someone’s soul, about caring more about what’s on the inside. They’d see you with me and they’d think, ‘what the hell’s that fool doing with a black man?’ Only those aren’t the words they’d use, and you know it. Bad enough they thought it was you and I when I wore dresses. You don’t know how ugly it would get, and it would be forever, Jesse. Because this isn’t going away. It’s who I am.”

            He drops Jesse’s hands, moving away, and Jesse can’t say anything for a moment.

            Jesse shrugs, and says obstinately, “Never been afraid of a fight.”

            Tupelo drops his head, growling in frustration at the ceiling of the church. He points upwards, and challenges, “What’s _he_ think of this, Preacher? Huh? You want to act like this will all work out because we love each other enough that nothing else will matter—which is _idiotic_ —but you tell me what your precious God thinks about it. How are you going to square it, huh? How are you going to explain it to that man in the sky?”

            He doesn’t like the look on Jesse’s face. He sees that Jesse has an answer, but he’s sitting on it.

            “What?” Tupelo says dangerously.

            Jesse raises his shoulders, swallowing.

            “You got something to say, you spit it out. Tell me.”

            Breathing deeply, Jesse says, “Could be he don’t care.”

            Tupelo looks at him askance, furrowing his brows. He doesn’t understand. “Doesn’t care because he doesn’t exist?”

            “Could be,” Jesse says, but it’s hollow.

            Then Tupelo gets it.

            He feels the blood drain from his face. He blinks at Jesse, unable to shift his feet or breathe. His pulse is beating in his throat, so he can feel it in the sides of his neck. Like there’s something inside trying to get free.

            Tupelo says, “You think he doesn’t care, because in his eyes I’ll always be a woman. And so it doesn’t really matter, it’s not all that bad, if you and I are together. Because it’ll be square with God.”

            Jesse lowers his head slightly, adam’s apple working. Then he raises his eyes back to Tupelo.

            Stepping forward, Tupelo reaches up. He puts his hands to the back of Jesse’s head, pulling him down, and kisses him. He tastes toothpaste and warm flesh, his hands feel the softness of his dark hair, he inhales the scent of cigarettes and Ashman’s cologne, the same brand his daddy wore. Everything about him reminds Tupelo of the past, of happier days, and a future that exists in some alternate dimension.

            But not this one.

            Tupelo pulls back an inch, just far enough that he can look into Jesse’s warm eyes. He whispers, “You remember the moment you woke up and I wasn’t there? You remember reading the note? You remember the moment I broke your heart?”

            Gazing back at him, Jesse murmurs, “Yes.”

            Fingers tangling into his hair, one last time, Tupelo says, “Congratulations. We’re even.”

            He lets him go and walks away.

            It takes a second, but Jesse calls after him, “Tupelo—“

            “Goodbye, Jesse.”

            “Don’t—“

            Tupelo stops halfway down the pews, and looks back at him. Jesse Custer. Walking streak of sex and darkness. Everything he wanted. Only wrong. Stuck in a place he’s not supposed to be, pretending to be someone he’s not. Tupelo feels blown open, but he’s just aware enough to know that’s a terrible place to be.

            “I’ve got no need for someone who needs to justify his love for me believing the opposite of what I know, what I am, so as he can sleep at night. I’ll love you until the day I die, but goddamn—I am worth a _thousand_ of you.”

            Tupelo walks out of the church, and Jesse doesn’t say another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the Devil comes collecting  
> ‘Cause heaven don’t want no wanted man  
> He’d better wear a six-gun on his hip and hold another in his hand  
> 'Knockin' On Joe' The First Born is Dead (1985)


	10. Let me say this to you

The rain’s still going as he heads for town. One thing hasn’t changed. He still needs gas.

            As he drives down the road, emotionally numb, the boys from Austin completely blown from his mind, he sees a strange sight. A man in a wool poncho, walking alongside the road.

            Tupelo considers blowing by him, but he looks at his windshield wipers going to and fro, and sighs. Not even really thinking about it, he slows down.

            The man looks over, bending down as Tupelo comes alongside. He lowers his sunglasses a little—still wearing sunglasses in the rain, Lord—and Tupelo leans over, rolling the window down an inch.

            “You got one chance to tell me where you’re going, and do it intelligibly,” Tupelo says. “Otherwise you can walk the rest of the way.”

            Cassidy says, “Toadvine.”

            Tupelo nods, and unlocks the passenger door. “Hop in.”

            Cassidy slips in, soaked. He’s still wearing that goofy sunhat under the poncho hood, and gardening gloves. Smells of sunscreen. Rolling the window up, he starts to speak.

            Tupelo cuts him off. “Cassidy, I just had a real upsetting conversation, and I need silence. I’m doing you a solid because—I don’t even know why. But in return, I need you to be very, very quiet.”

            Cassidy sits there a moment, then says, “Jesse?”

            Biting his lower lip, Tupelo nods.

            Inhaling deeply, Cassidy lifts a hand to his mouth, and mimes zipping it shut.

            Grateful, Tupelo takes off the brakes. “Gotta make a stop at the gas station. I’m running on empty.”

            Cassidy says, “Aren’t we all.”

            Tupelo casts him a gaze, and Cassidy lifts his hands in surrender.

 

When Tupelo pulls up to Toadvine, he rests his head against the window. His insides are aching. He doesn’t know what to do about it.

            Cassidy lightly hits his arm, and Tupelo grabs his wrist, twisting it back. “Ow ow ow! Jaysis!”

            “Did I say you could touch me? Do I seem like a person that you should just touch without permission first?”

            Shaking his head, lips firmly pressed together, Cassidy makes a sound from the back of his throat.

            Tupelo throws him off with a sigh, sticking his hand into his hair.

            Always a woman in the eyes of God. That’s how Jesse was going to justify it to himself. It’d be okay to love him, because he wasn’t really a man, no matter what he looked like, no matter how he felt about himself, no matter what he _knew_ about himself.

            _Jesse Custer, you son of a bitch_.

            “Drink.”

            Tupelo chews on his finger, gazing at the house through the rain. He feels scraped raw. The instinct to get truly, deeply fucked up is a lot stronger than the urge to get out of town.

            “Ah, c’mon. Drink wit’ me.”

            “I don’t know if you’re actually making an effort to be more coherent or if I just need to be deeply miserable to understand you.”

            “Cert’nly nat t’ former.”

            Tupelo gives him a hard look, then snorts. “You’re broke as a joke, and you’ve heard they like me in there. So you’re hoping you won’t have to pay.”

            Smiling crookedly, Cassidy replies, “Guilty as charged.”

            “They don’t like me so much that I’d get you a woman for free. Could probably swing some liquor, though, before they threw us out.”

            Slapping his hands on his thighs, Cassidy says something that sounds optimistic, but Tupelo can’t parse it out.

            With a nod, Tupelo sighs. “What the hell. Get me drunk enough, maybe I’ll let you see me naked.”

            He pushes the door open, and Cassidy practically leaps out.

 

It’s quiet enough. A late Thursday afternoon, the rain starting to let up outside. The Quincannon boys will start showing up soon, but in the meantime, Tupelo and Cassidy have played poker with the girls around the kitchen table.

            Tupelo is up five hundred dollars, which is a relief. He doesn’t feel at all bad taking the money off the girls. They work for their pay, and if this is how they want to give it up, that’s their prerogative.

            Tupelo has a drink from his bottle. He’s sticking to beer, planning to get on the road as soon as he stops feeling so god awful. Right now, he thinks he might just drift off the road into the ditch without much provocation.

            Cassidy is playing with one of the girls—Melissa—on his lap. He played a few rounds himself, but quickly lost the thirty dollars he had to his name, and now he’s just giving Melissa encouragement. The women like him. Something about the accent and the look on his face that’s halfway between roguish and puppy dog.

            “Twenty five,” Tupelo says, tossing the chips into the middle of the table.

            No missing how Lily, to his left, flinches. Nonetheless, she says, “Twenty five.”

            Tupelo’s not exactly worried. He’s managed to get himself a full house—two sevens and three tens—so even though he’s a good bluffer, he doesn’t even have to bother this time.

            “Tupelo,” says Tawny, “girls have been wondering something.”

            “What’s that now?” he says, disinterested.

            “What’s the preacher like in bed?”

            Tupelo stills, and Cassidy says, “Ay, now—“ Raises his hand like a gentleman and everything, like they’ve asked something beyond the pale.

            But Tupelo sees that the women aren’t making fun. They genuinely want to know.

            Shrugging, Tupelo picks up his beer and says, “Best I ever had. By a long shot.”

            Tawny rests her head on her hand, asking, “Really? He looks like it. Heard stories about him, from back in the day.”

            “Yeah, well. I’d tell you it’s all lies, but the truth’s probably weirder. You in?”

            “What? Oh, yeah. Twenty five and—five more.”

            Cassidy jostles Melissa on his lap, and she sighs. “What the hell. Thirty.”

            “So?” Tawny says.     

            “So what?” Tupelo replies. He glances up, and sees everyone at the table looking at him. “Lord, for real? You want to know about Jesse?”

            “Not that often you get to hear about what a preacher’s like in bed,” says Melissa.

            The two other women snort. Lily says to Tupelo, “She’s never worked another town.”

            “You do,” Tupelo tells Melissa, “and trust me. The preacher will be one of your best customers. The preacher, the priest, the rabbi, the imam, whatever man is supposed to be righteous and three inches from God will be the one asking you to put him in leather and spank him.”

            “Amen,” says Cassidy.

            Tupelo plays with his cards idly. “But Jesse,” he says quietly. “He’s one of the good ones. Probably why he’s not cut out to be a preacher.” He shrugs. “Or he _was_ one of the good ones. I dunno.” He sees Cassidy start to reach over to him, and raises a finger. “What’d I tell you about touching me?”

            Cassidy quickly snatches his hand back, wrapping his arms around Melissa’s waist and giving her a look. An ‘almost got caught that time, didn’t I’ look.

            “But Jesse,” says Tupelo, hardly aware that he’s telling the story, “he and I, we were friends from the moment we met. Two kids who didn’t really fit anywhere. My mama was one of you, and my daddy, he died early. I was different from the start, only I couldn’t put a word to it. And Jesse—well, everyone was kind of scared of his daddy, just because he was such an uptight prick who held the keys to the kingdom. Only Jesse had a wild streak in him too. So we were friends, ever since we were little. Getting into fights together, spending all our time together. He was my best friend. My only friend, but my best friend.

            “Even when we were kids, we had this saying. Until the end of the world. When we were little, it meant we’d always be friends. I was upset about always being sent from one place to the other, from my uncle’s to Mosie’s to whoever would take me for the night. He’s about the only stability I ever had. So he said we’d be friends until the end of the world. That was our thing. But then we got older, and that changed.

            “Not us being friends. The nature of it changed, I guess. Got old enough to want somebody else, and knew the only person I wanted was him. Could see the only person he wanted was me. I was in foster care by then—thanks to his asshole father calling DFPS on me—but his daddy was dead too. Shot to death in front of him. We saw each other when we could, sneaking out, doing whatever we could to be around each other. Even when I was in another town, this is where I’d run back to. So I could be near him. He’s the first person I ever kissed.” Tupelo pauses, then admits, “I didn’t even kiss anyone else until I was twenty eight, when I left him.”

            “That’s so romantic,” says Melissa.

            Tupelo snorts softly, adding his chips. Then he shrugs. “Suppose so. He’s the love of my life, make no mistake. Everybody could see it. It was just one of those things that seemed inevitable. Like the sun rising and setting, or my uncle passing out before he could make it from the couch to the bedroom, or Quincannon boys coming in under a minute and a half.” The women laugh. Tupelo can sense Cassidy watching him from the corner of his eyes, but he ignores him. “Lost our virginity to each other when we were fifteen. Out in that shed where they killed that homeless man. You know the one I mean?”

            “Jesus,” says Lily, but Tupelo laughs.

            “It’s just a shed. Not like his ghost haunts the place or anything.”

            “How was it?” asks Tawny. “My first guy was faster than those Quincannon boys.”

            Tupelo pauses, then admits, “Perfect.” He shakes his head, sad. “Everybody says their first time was—anticlimactic. Or awful. But he was good to me. It was real special. No lie. The two of us stayed out there all night. At least until his gran’s man came and found him. Slapped me in the face so hard I cut the inside of my lip.” Tupelo pulls his lip down to show them the scar.

            “Jaysis,” says Cassidy. “What’d he do?”

            “Jesse? Oh, he tried to brain Jody with a pipe, but Jody just grabbed it from him, smacked him over the head. Knocked him unconscious, carried him out of there. I didn’t see Jesse for months after that. Stupid fucking family keeping him hostage out at Angelville, home schooling him, or indoctrinating him with all that God bullshit he still can’t seem to shake. Was three years before I really got him back. I’d see him here and there, but he was so afraid of me getting hurt that he tried keeping me away. They’d told him if I came near, they’d kill me. Get away with it too, since I was a black girl. They were probably right. Good thing they didn’t know I was actually a black boy, or they probably would have gone ahead and done it for real.”

            “I’ve heard about his family,” says Lily. She looks at Tupelo meaningfully. “His gran’ma and those guys of hers—died in an explosion, I heard.”

            “Well, for the best. If there is a hell, at least they got a sneak preview.”

            “How’d you get him back?” Melissa asks.

            “Stole him,” Tupelo says, a bit proud of himself. “Went out to that house of theirs. Climbed up the tree outside his room, and said, I’m rescuing you. He said, Custer men don’t need to be rescued. I said, then I’m liberating you from bondage. Just get your cracker ass out here. And out he came, and we ran away. Didn’t look back. I had him for ten years.”

            “What happened?” says Melissa, looking slightly horrified. She’s young. Romantic. That’ll fade plenty fast in this place.

            “Loved him so much I was willing to pretend I was something I wasn’t for a long time. You can love someone so hard that everything else seems insurmountable at first. And we had good years, don’t get me wrong. The parts with him were never bad. Even when we were fighting like cats and dogs, we both knew we’d still be together at the end of the day. He was real set on getting married early on, but I wouldn’t do it. Guess a part of me knew that eventually I’d go because I had to and didn’t want that hanging on him too. Cause you can love someone enough that you forget the truth for a while, but eventually it comes around again. Truth was—“ Tupelo shrugs, gestures to himself. “This is me. Jesse wanted a wife. I can’t be anyone’s wife, because I’m a man. He’s a West Texas boy. True love or not—I knew what was coming if I told him the truth about myself. I held out as long as I could, until I couldn’t no more. That’s the truth of it. I held out for him for ten years, hating myself so I could keep loving him. I don’t expect any of you to understand. If you haven’t lived it, it’s pretty hard to explain.”

            “We’ve all got secrets,” says Tawny. She nods. “I know what it’s like. Something eating you up inside until it’s all that’s in there.”

            “Yeah. So I left. I loved him. Figured he loved me enough that he’d want me alive instead of dead, so I left instead of offing myself. And here I am. Five years on, still a goddamn fool for him. And here he is, delusional and drunk and calling himself a preacher.” Tupelo shakes his head, miserable and tired. “Travesty. Wanted him to be happy. Didn’t think he’d choose slow suicide in Annville. But here he is.”

            There’s a silence, then Melissa says, “That’s so sad.”

            Tupelo pats her knee. “It is what it is, honey. No changing it.” They lift their heads at the sound of engines outside. Tupelo blows out a sigh. “Guess you gals gotta work. I call.” He lays out his cards. “Full house.”

            “Fuck a duck,” Tawny hisses, tossing down a pair of twos. “Jesus, Tupelo, that’s uncanny.”

            “Yeah, my luck always holds,” Tupelo says with a straight face. “Pay up, bitches.”

            He collects his money as the women get up. Lily leans down to kiss him on the forehead, and he smacks her lightly on the ass as she goes. Tupelo stuffs the money into his wallet, gathering up the cards and slipping them back into the deck.

            He’s aware of Cassidy watching him. Without looking up, Tupelo says, “I’m too sad to fuck you, Cassidy. Sorry if I led you on.”

            Cassidy shrugs, and says, “T’allright.” He nods upstairs, picking up one of the bottles the girls left behind.

            “What part of ‘we’re not gonna fuck’ was unclear?”

            Rolling his eyes, Cassidy speaks slowly. “We can…go upstairs. And be sad. Together.”

            “What have you got to be sad about?”

            “I’m a vampire.”

            Tupelo smiles, despite himself, listening as the Quincannon boys start to come in, greeted by the women at the front. Tossing the deck of cards onto the table, he nods at the stove. “Better grab the good stuff then. That’s where Mosie hides it.”

            He gets up as Cassidy scampers over to the stove. Opening it up, he reaches inside, and comes out with a full bottle. Going a little weak in his knees, Cassidy says, “Lagavulin.”

            “Amen,” Tupelo says.

           

“Why do you think you’re a vampire?”

            Lifting his mouth from the bottle, Cassidy returns, “Why t’ you t’ink you’re a man?”

            “Because I am one.”

            “Well,” Cassidy shrugs, holding out the bottle.

            Tupelo takes it. They’re sitting on the bed in one of the rooms upstairs. Tupelo lifted the key for the room while Mosie was dealing with some disgruntled packer. They probably don’t have too long before they’re found out.

            Tupelo’s sitting against the headboard, looking out at the grey day. The rain has stopped, but he doesn’t suppose for long. Cassidy’s slouched down at the other end of the bed, his skinny legs stretched out.

            Playing along, Tupelo says, “How long have you been a vampire?”

            “Huntred years.”

            “That’s specific.”

            “Turned 1916. Huntred years. I was eighteen. So I’m 118 years old.”

            “So you’ve seen a lot.”

            “Mm.”

            “Killed a lot of people, I guess, if you’re a vampire.”

            “Mm.”

            Tupelo sips from the bottle. At this rate, he’ll have to sleep in his car, but fuck it. Another night in Annville. After the bullets he put through Brian and Davis, he’s not worried about lingering another day. “Why’d you decide to become a vampire?”

            “Twasn’t my choice.”

            “Who’s choice was it?”

            “T’ing dat bit me, wasn’t it.”

            “You gotta be a lot more convincing, Cassidy. Everyone knows that vampires can’t go outside in the daytime. You should be burned to a pile of ashes right now.”

            Cassidy thumbs out the window. “Only in tirect sunlight.”

            Tupelo grins crookedly. “And the sunscreen helps, huh?”

            “Yes it tuz,” Cassidy says, offended. He crosses his arms, frowning at Tupelo. “You know—we are who we are. Cannot help that. We kin accept that—or die. Din’t want to be this way. But I am. So I survive. No sin in that.” He wobbles his head back and forth. “Asite from all the people I’ve killt, yeah.”

            Tupelo eyes him. “Tell me—is it a sick joke? You thinking you’re a vampire, and living in the church? Because I think it’s funny.”

            “Oh, I t’ought it was a little funny ‘t first.” Cassidy thinks about it, then gives Tupelo a thin lipped smile. “B’t I like Jesse, see.”

            Pausing, Tupelo raises a brow. “Honey, if you like him like that, trust me from personal experience, it won’t end well.”

            “No no no. Well—“ Cassidy thinks about it, then shrugs affably. “Tuz look like he’s hit wit the dark and handsome stick, yeah?” Tupelo laughs despite himself. “But no. No, not like tat really.” Cassidy scratches his cheek. “Decent, is all. Don’t see much o’ that. Not anywhere. Been awhile since…t’I had any mates, is all. Real ones. He’s awful decent, tis all. Fond o’ him.” He reaches for the bottle.

            Giving it to him, Tupelo thinks about it. He wraps his arms around himself, and admits, “He broke my heart today, Cass. Good and proper.” He doesn’t look as Cassidy pulls his lips off the bottle with an audible sound. “Basically said he’d never see me as a man because God never would. If he’d just said that from the start, looked at me like I was a freak from the moment I walked into his church last Sunday—I think I could have stood that. Only he gave me hope.” Tupelo nods, chewing on his lower lip. “That’s the worst of it. That’s what I don’t think I can forgive.”

            “Hope is a dangerous ting, I’ll give you dat.”

            Tupelo rubs his hands over his arms, and shivers. “You do me a favour?” He looks over at Cassidy. “Look after him. He won’t do it for himself. And don’t _eat_ him, for Christ’s sake.” Cassidy grins, showing off almost disturbingly sharp teeth. Just a coincidence is all. Sobering, Tupelo says, “But you’ll look after him. When he’s hurting.”

            “To my best,” Cassidy promises.

            Nodding, Tupelo says, “That’s all anyone can do.” He pulls out his wallet, and flips through the bills. Withdrawing a hundred dollars, he holds it out to Cassidy, who raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t argue about taking it. “Go spend some time with one of the girls. And tip her, cocksucker, or I’ll know.”

            “You want to brood?”

            “I do. That and I’m sick of your face.” Tupelo nods towards the door.

            Cassidy gets up, taking the bottle with him, which is probably for the best. He gets a few feet, before turning back to Tupelo. He gestures between the two of them, then makes the finger going in the hole gesture again.

            “Fuck off,” Tupelo says.

            Waving, Cassidy leaves, saying, “All right.”

            He closes the door, and Tupelo’s alone, with only his thoughts, and the sounds of the house around him.

 

Five minutes later, there’s a knock on the door. “Tupelo?”

            He lifts his head. “Yeah. You need me to vacate, Mosie?”

            “Not for now. Just seeing if it was you.”

            “Yep. It’s me. So you know, that skinny Irish bastard stole your booze.”

            “Uh huh,” says Mosie, not buying it for a second. “You feel like it, come on down in a few. I’m making chicken.”

            “Okay.”

            Tupelo sits with his arms around his shins, scooted further down the bed so he can look out the window. The room he’s in is at the back of the house. He can see out to the hills, an old house that’s sunken over the years nearly to the ground, collapsed in on itself. For all he knows, it could have been here when Ratwater existed.

            _God, if only Annville would blow away too_ , Tupelo thinks.

            That’s when his eyes see the cloud.

            Narrowing his gaze, Tupelo pushes himself to his knees. He goes closer to the window, looking into the distance. The sky has lightened a little there, clouds lifted enough that he can see some blue along the horizon. Only there’s a cloud that doesn’t look right.

            Unlatching the window, Tupelo shoves it upwards. He leans out to get a better look.

            He can’t tell, not exactly, but it’s entirely possible that cloud in the distance is fixing to turn into a funnel.

            Sighing, Tupelo mutter, “Well, shit.” He definitely isn’t getting out of here tonight.

            That’s when, from the other side of the house, someone yells, “TUPELO O’HARE!”

            He’s so startled that he drops the window, and it clips him on the head.

            Yelping, Tupelo grabs the top of his head with both hands. “Ow!” He bites his lip, inwardly coming up with every single curse he knows. The pain’s radiating from his skull, outwards with a tremble, wiping clear everything except the hurt.

            He swings his legs over the side of the bed, staggering upwards. He drops one hand, but keeps the other exactly where the window fell. His eyes are watering a little with the shock.

            As his mind starts to clear, he hears that someone’s still yelling. “Goddamn it, Tupelo, I know you’re in there! I’m standing next to your car!”

            Oh, Jesus. No. Enough is enough.

            Tupelo yanks open the door as Jesse hollers, “Tupelo! I ain’t going anywhere until you listen to what I have to say!”

            A man yells, “Shut the fuck up, Preacher!”

            “Frank! Why don’t you shut your hole and go home to your wife instead of spending what little money you got out here? Maybe then she wouldn’t be banging that sixteen year old halfback who mows your lawn!”

            _Oh shit_ , Tupelo thinks, opening the door across the hall. Melissa and the man under her both scramble for the sheets around them, but Tupelo ignores them, going to the window.

            He looks outside. Jesse’s standing by the Chevelle, a determined look on his face. He’s parked his truck carelessly, the door hanging over. “You goddamn fool,” Tupelo mutters.

            Pushing the window up, he glares at Jesse. When Jesse sees him, he shakes his head. “Now how hard was that?”

            “Jesse Custer!” Tupelo yells in anger. “What the fuck did I tell you about drinking and driving? You want to kill yourself, have the basic decency to do it when I’m across the county line.”

            “No sir,” Jesse says, “I am stone cold sober right now.”

            “Like hell you are!”

            “You want me to walk in a straight line? Want me to do this?” Jesse closes his eyes, and holds out both arms. He easily touches his nose with the tip of his left index finger, then the right. Opening his eyes, he asks, “You need anything else, or you want to come down here and give me a breathalyzer before I’ve said my piece?”

            “What piece? What the hell are you doing here?”

            “I have to tell you something.”

            “You already said plenty.”

            “Yes I did, and I’ve got more. So I’m going to say it to you, in front of all of _them_.” Jesse jabs a finger at the house.

            Tupelo leans out the window. He sees that the other windows have been propped open, that either the whores or the Quincannon boys are watching all this with interest.

            “For _fuck’s_ sake,” Tupelo mutters. He climbs out the window onto the balcony, the window slamming shut behind himself. He steps up to the railing, crossing his arms. “Why the hell you gotta tell me something in front of them?”

            Raising his shoulders, Jesse answers, “Because what I’ve got to say, I know these—inbred, sinning, racist, adulterous, homophobic, transphobic, sheep fucking, child beating morons will spread it all over town in about three seconds.”

            Stunned, Tupelo can’t say anything for a moment. Confused, he asks, “What have you got to say?”

            “I love you.”

            Tupelo stares at him.

            Putting up his hands, Jesse confesses, “I—Jesse Custer—a man—love you—Tupelo O’Hare—another man—with every breath in my cowardly, good for nothing body. I have been yellow as mustard without the bite, and I don’t expect you to forgive me for that right off, though I’d appreciate it if you did. I do not give a shit who knows it—in fact, I’d be happier if everybody knows it. I’ve loved you my whole life. Never gonna stop. Until the end of the world. I said it, I meant it, and I mean it now.”

            He realizes his jaw has dropped. Tupelo looks around, almost expecting there to be a hidden camera, and someone jumping out to say _gotcha_. But all he sees are wide eyed rednecks and at least one sex worker who’s clapping her hands with happiness for him.

            Gathering himself together, Tupelo asks, “What about God?”

            Eyes hardening, Jesse replies, “Fuck him. He don’t love me near as much as I love you. And he sure as hell doesn’t love me like you do. I’m willing to take my chances.” He points to his white collar. “You want me to pull this off and toss it in the mud in front of all these people, I’m willing to do that too. I’ll leave Annville, I’ll go anywhere you want, so long as it’s with you. Just tell me you love me back, and I haven’t made a complete ass of myself.”

            Struggling for words, Tupelo says, “Well—you’ve definitely made an ass of yourself.”

            Gazing up at him, Jesse says, “I need you to be patient with me, sweetheart. I don’t understand what you’ve gone through, but I want to. Whoever you are, that’s who I want. If you’re willing to give me a little patience, I’ll give you everything I’ve got.”

            This is the Jesse he remembers. Dramatic, given to sweeping declarations. A man who dares to hope.

            One of the men yells, “The preacher’s a—“

            Tupelo turns and shouts back viciously, “The preacher’s MINE! I already shot two men today, and if you finish that fucking sentence, I’ll make it three, you son of a bitch!”

            He looks back at Jesse, who’s grinning up at him in the old way. Like the devil’s lit him up inside. Tupelo grins back.

            Climbing over the railing, he hollers over his shoulder, “Cassidy!”

            “Yep!”

            “Don’t go back to the church! My guess is they’ll have burned it down by nightfall!”

            Tupelo quickly scales down the balcony roof, then slides down one of the columns, where Jesse’s waiting for him. Jesse grabs onto his arms, and Tupelo grabs him by the front of the shirt, the both of them staring at each other with complete giddiness.

            Breaking the moment within seconds, Tupelo giggles, “We gotta get the fuck out of here, Jess—they’re liable to shoot us.”

            “Hell yes,” Jesse says, putting a hand to his back and pushing him towards the vehicles. “I’ll follow you in my truck.”

            “Where we going?”

            “Wherever you want.”

            “Not south,” Tupelo says, pulling out his keys, not caring when the change in his pocket spills onto the ground. “I think there’s a twister coming.”

            Shaking his head, Jesse climbs back into his truck, saying in admiration, “I swear to God, you bring the rain with you.”

            Tupelo bares his teeth as he smiles, and almost dives into his car.

            He’s laughing, “Black rain come down,” as he jams his keys into the ignition, not bothering with his seatbelt. “Black rain come down.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me say this to you  
> I’ll be steadfast and true  
> And my love will never falter  
> 'Rock of Gibraltar' Nocturama (2003)


	11. Such is my love for you

He takes them north, on the old road that passes the Erickson farm. The road goes bumpy, then non-existent, and they’re driving over grass and earth, Tupelo being jostled up and down far more than Jesse probably is in his truck.            

            He keeps looking up at his rear-view, to make sure Jesse’s behind him. He sees that a hell of a rain cloud has settled over Annville, but it doesn’t look like a twister. It’ll be a blue norther at best. Right now, he’s in good enough a mood to not be bitter about that.

            Once they’re a few miles from town, away from where anyone would possibly think to look for them, Tupelo stops his car. Leaving the keys in the ignition, he gets out, slamming the door after himself.

            Jesse hops down out of his truck, pressing the door firmly closed. The way he’s looking at Tupelo, it’s like nothing else in the world exists.

            “You know what you just did, Preacher?”

            “Torpedoed my livelihood, for one.”

            “You just declared your love for me, in public. While I was on a balcony. In the _rain_.”

            “It was really more of a drizzle.”

            Shaking his head, Tupelo walks to him with gathering speed. “Jesse Custer, I love you more than _air_.” He puts his hands on Jesse’s shoulders, jumping up.

            Jesse catches him, one arm around his back, the other hand under his ass. Tupelo wraps his arms around Jesse’s waist, taking handfuls of Jesse’s hair, and kisses him open mouthed and messy, wanting to fucking devour him whole.

            Jesse’s grip on him tightens, his tongue clashing with Tupelo’s. He tastes of Marlboros. And no alcohol either, which still comes as a minor shock. Tupelo doesn’t know how to get any closer than he already is, wishing he could just push his way through Jesse’s clothes by wanting it, and his kiss is so violent that their teeth clank off each other.

            The hand on his ass squeezes, and Tupelo whimpers. Only Jesse could ever get that noise out of him. He kisses Jesse’s mouth, over and over, desperate for him.

            “Jesus Christ,” Jesse gasps.

            “Hallelujah,” Tupelo responds.

            With a laugh, Jesse slams him up against the side of the truck. Growling, Tupelo yanks his head back by the hair, biting softly under Jesse’s chin, remembering how that always drove him crazy. It still works. Jesse’s cursing him out something terrible, pressing him into the metal, hand slipping lower and gripping a thigh.

            They only break apart at the sound of thunder in the distance. They look to one another and completely crack up. “What’d I say about you bringing the rain?” Jesse teases.

            He holds Tupelo up with one arm and backs up, Tupelo wrapped around him completely, kissing his neck as Jesse opens the door. “Town needs it. Looks like it’s about to dry up and blow away.”

            Jesse pushes the driver’s seat forward, prompting Tupelo off. Reluctant, Tupelo lets him go long enough to climb into the backseat. Jesse glances around as the rain starts to pitter patter harder on the windshield, and then climbs in after Tupelo.

            Impatient, Tupelo yanks him inside and Jesse falls awkwardly onto the seat. Jesse yelps, and they both laugh. “Good lord, you’d think you hadn’t seen a man in years,” Jesse says, reaching out to close the door.

            “Ain’t seen a man looked this good in some years, that’s for damn sure.” Tupelo scoots back, breathing heavily.

            For a moment, they just sit, studying one another, breathing heavily. Jesse’s eyes are bright, and he looks about twenty years old again.

            “Are you sure?” Tupelo asks quietly, not used to the vulnerability in his voice. “Jess, are you really sure?”

            Furrowing his brows, Jesse reaches out, and uses his strong hands to take Tupelo under the armpits. He pulls him close, and it’s awkward. One of his legs go around Jesse, pinned against the seat, the other lays over his thigh.

            Jesse lifts a hand, brushing a curl from Tupelo’s forehead. “You are the only thing in my life I’ve ever been sure of. I am a fool. I am so sorry for all the hurt I caused you, making you think I wouldn’t love you, wouldn’t be proud of you, no matter what. That guts me, sweetheart. I can’t even tell you.”

            He cups Tupelo’s face with both hands, and Tupelo presses his face into those sturdy, rough palms.

            “I can’t promise you I’ll get it all right at first. I haven’t lived through what you have, so I don’t get it, not like you wish I would. And I’ll tell you now—sometimes I’m gonna call you by the wrong name, or I’ll say the wrong thing, and if you want to punch me in the balls for being an asshole, I can take it. I’ll take it, and then I’ll do better next time. Just tell me you’ll give me a chance. Be patient with me. Let me love you. I can’t be perfect, I can’t promise you that. I can promise, though, I’ll always, always love you. I’ll always be _in_ love with you.” His eyes search Tupelo’s face. “Will you be patient with me, sweetheart?”

            Biting his lip, Tupelo nods. “Yeah, honey. I can do that.”

            “Okay. Aw, hell—is it okay, me calling you sweetheart?”

            “Yes,” Tupelo laughs, realizing he was almost teary for a second. “Yes, I love it when you do that, you can call me sweetheart forever, I love it.”

            He leans up, kissing Jesse again, only this time it’s slower. Sweeter. Jesse strokes his cheek, and Tupelo takes little handfuls of his shirt, the rain tapping above their heads.

            Jesse breaks away from him a moment, giving him a crooked smile. He reaches down for Tupelo’s ankle, pulling his boot up onto his thigh. “I’ll get your clothes muddy,” Tupelo protests weakly.

            “You don’t care,” Jesse says, because he’s had Tupelo’s number for three decades. “You just don’t want me getting your clothes dirty.”

            Tupelo watches, heart swelling, at how tenderly Jesse undoes the double knotted laces of his boot. He gently loosens the laces, before tugging the boot off, tossing it over into the front seat.

            Putting a hand underneath Tupelo’s other knee, Jesse prompts, “Come on, now.” Tupelo leans back on his elbows, having to bite into his smile to keep from beaming as Jesse repeats the whole thing with his other boot.

            God, he is on fire with love for this man.

            Jesse tugs off his sock, then squeezes Tupelo’s foot in his hands. Then Jesse snickers, “You got hair on your toes.”

            Poking him in the side with his other foot, Tupelo says, “So?”

            “I was just thinking, you should see mine. It’s getting ridiculous.”

            “Getting old?” Jesse starts to lean down over him, but Tupelo puts up a hand. “Nuh uh. Boots.”

            With a roll of the eyes, Jesse turns sideways on the seat. “Some things _never_ change.”

            “These are my cute jeans,” Tupelo says. “You’re not wrecking them with your nasty old boots.”

            “Your cute jeans, huh?” Jesse asks, yanking off his black alligator skin boots.

            “Uh huh.”

            “Not so cute that they don’t got blood on them.”

            Tupelo makes a face. Shrugging, he says, “They’re so cute I couldn’t throw them out because of a little blood.”

            Jesse throws his cowboy boots under the steering wheel. “O’Hare, you’re gonna be the death of me.” He looks Tupelo over, and tugs on his Johnny Cash tank top. “I know you wore this for me.”

            “Nope.”

            “Pissed at me as you were this morning, after the shit I pulled last night, and you still wore this for me.”

            “Nuh uh. Johnny who?”

            Jesse sticks a hand down the front of his pants, yanking him a few inches down. Tupelo catches his breath, flushing, as he’s laid flat on the seat. Jesse gets on his knees between Tupelo’s legs, bending over him. There’s not a lot of space, but this sure as hell wouldn’t be the first time they’ve gotten naked in the back of a vehicle. Tupelo opens his knees wide to let Jesse settle.

            Slipping his hand under the shirt, fingers pressing into the muscles of Tupelo’s stomach, Jesse says in admiration, “Know what I thought when you walked into my church, wearing this on Sunday? Know what was going through my head?”

            “I thought he was just an alcohol induced hallucination?”

            “Besides that, wiseass.”

            “Tell me,” Tupelo says, reaching up to graze a thumb over the side of Jesse’s mouth.

            Inhaling through his nose, Jesse tells him, “I thought, ‘I never knew until this moment that I could want a man.’ That’s what I thought, looking at you.” He shakes his head, pushing Tupelo’s shirt further and further up, revealing more of his storm tattoo. “There I am, trying to give my stupid sermon about Tom Landry, and the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen walks in and I’ve got to suddenly square that with myself. You _bitch_.”

            Tupelo grins, putting a hand up into his hair.

            He makes a little noise as Jesse lowers his head, kissing beneath his navel. Closing his eyes, he remembers how it could be like this. There was never any telling if they’d leave each other bruised or be so gentle with each other that hours could pass before one of them would even go off.

            Jesse kisses the scar on his lower stomach, and Tupelo pets his hair. “No babies,” he reminds Jesse.

            “Praise be,” Jesse mutters. “This bloodline must _end_.”

            “Our babies would have been damned attractive, though.”

            “Only if they took after you.”

Tupelo means to reply, but all he can manage is an, “Oh.“ Tupelo cringes happily as Jesse gently bites into his navel. They’ve both always been pretty eager with their teeth, to give and receive.

            He tries to keep his breath steady as Jesse works his way upwards with tongue and teeth and mouth. Tupelo hooks a leg around the back of Jesse’s thigh, putting his hands up behind his head to keep from sinking his claws into the man.

            Pushing the shirt up, Jesse says, “Much as I enjoy the sight of Johnny, this has got to go.” Tupelo lifts his arms, letting Jesse pull the tank top up and over his head. He smiles as Jesse drapes it over the passenger seat, before returning his attention to Tupelo’s chest.

            Tupelo loves the scrape of Jesse’s facial hair over his skin. Back in the day, he was so envious that Jesse would shave and two hours later look like a mountain man. Now he just enjoys it, without the jealousy.

            Between kisses to Tupelo’s flesh, Jesse says, “This—is some—seriously—beautiful ink.”

            “Thank you.”

            “How much did it run you?”

            “Not a dime. Just had to burn down a competitor’s shop.”

            Jesse pauses, then starts chuckling. “You are a demon. Sent straight from hell.”

            “Uh huh.”

            Jesse moves up, putting a hand under Tupelo’s head, and kisses him. Wrapping his arms around Jesse’s neck, Tupelo listens to the storm gathering outside, and strokes his fingertips behind Jesse’s ear, remembering all the old sensitive places.

            It’s familiar, these slow kisses that mean more than words could. But it’s new too. Tupelo’s never been one for long make out sessions with anyone but Jesse, so the sensation of his goatee against Jesse’s is fairly novel to him. It’s new, too, to have Jesse flat against his chest, nothing keeping them apart.

            He likes it. No, he loves it, he does. He loves anything that he gets to have with Jesse.

            Tupelo runs his hands over Jesse’s collar, then stops. Drawing his head back a little, he looks up into Jesse’s eyes. Jesse gazes back, not knowing why he’s stopped.

            “Jess,” Tupelo says, “may I—?”

            Jesse glances down. Without more than a second’s hesitation, he gives a single nod.

            Slipping two fingers under the starched white collar, Tupelo hooks onto it, and carefully pulls it off. It feels strange in his hand. Like something a person shouldn’t be wearing. He’s worn ties, but this feels like a different level of hell.

            Not wanting to push, Tupelo tosses it lightly onto the driver’s seat. If Jesse wants to put it back on later, that’s fine.

            But it’s the first Tupelo’s seen him in the last week without it. Gazing up at him, Jesse now clad in nothing but black, he looks _exactly_ as he should.

            Jesse asks with a faint smile, “What’s the verdict?”

            “There’s the love of my life,” Tupelo answers, pulling him down for more kisses.

            Tupelo twines around Jesse, limbs and tongues twisting, finding one another and reconfiguring over and over again. Jesse puts a hand under his leg, hiking it up over his hip, and Tupelo murmurs in appreciation. Yes—closer. As close as possible.

            Thumb rubbing over his scars, Jesse whispers, “May I ask something vulgar? To get it out of the way now instead of making a fool of myself in the moment?”

            Sucking on his lower lip, Tupelo breathes, “Ask away.”

            He has a hand on Jesse’s neck, so he feels him swallow. “How do I go about—making you happy? I’m as eager as a kid on prom right now, and I haven’t felt like this in a _long_ time, but I couldn’t help notice that’s not happening for you. Is there something I’m supposed to do?”

            It needs a second to sink in for Tupelo. When it does, he lifts Jesse’s head up, holding him so he can look in those sheepish brown eyes.

            “Jesse Custer—you’re asking how to get me hard?”

            “Every one of my ancestors is rolling over in their graves right now, but yes, Tupelo, I am.”

            A smile lights up Tupelo’s face. “You think I have a dick,” he says, blown away. “You’re totally willing to touch whatever I’ve got, aren’t you?”

            Rolling his eyes, Jesse says, “Like I could ever forget you buying that notebook and keeping a tally the first time I told you I couldn’t be expected to get you off as often as you did me, telling me we were going even stevens—“

            Tupelo starts to laugh. He can’t help himself. He kisses Jesse and tries to breathe and laugh at the same time and manages to do a little of all three, but not all of them well.

            “Okay, why’re you laughing at me?” Jesse says, and Tupelo feels the heat of his cheeks. “I already told you I don’t know what I’m doing, there’s no need to make me feel even more stupid.”

            “I’m laughing because I love you. Oh God, you sweet, ridiculous man.” Tupelo kisses Jesse’s cheek, then shakes his head at him. “Jesse, I don’t have a dick.”

            Still for a moment, Jesse says, “Oh. You don’t.”

            “No, baby. I don’t need one to know who I am. Besides, what I got works fine.” Tupelo lays little kisses along Jesse’s cheekbone. “You pushover. You love-struck fool. You would have sucked my dick, wouldn’t you.”

            “For God’s sake—“

            “You would have, and I love you for it.” Tupelo runs his fingers over Jesse’s face. “I’d do just about anything for you, Jess. You know that, don’t you?”

            “I sure hope so.”

            “I would. I would. I love you so much.”

            “Until the end of the world,” Jesse says, and kisses him.

 

The rain comes down in furious sheets outside the vehicle. It pounds against the top of the truck, begins to fill the back with a first millimetres, then a half inch of water. A wind has sprung up, occasionally rocking the old Ford to and fro.

            Neither of them notice.

            Tupelo’s arms slip along Jesse’s back. Jesse’s slick with sweat, and Tupelo’s no better. Jesse’s on his knees, and Tupelo’s straddling him, half crazy with want and being close, so fucking _close_.

            Jesse watches him every second, a strong arm around his back, his hand clutching Tupelo’s ass as they ride. They haven’t said anything in nearly an hour, too caught up, too set on torturing one another and making this last. It’s too important, and they both know it has to last and it has to be the best.

            And it is.

            That jab of electricity starts again in Tupelo’s lower belly, and he moans, fingers twisting into Jesse’s hair. He looks to Jesse, the only man he’d ever ask permission for anything from.

            Putting a hand against the close ceiling, Tupelo braces himself and rocks harder against Jesse, taking him in so deep that it almost hurts. But that’s right—love’s never painless, not the kind they share. He rolls his hips against Jesse faster, Jesse helping him along, fingers digging mercilessly into Tupelo’s body. They’ll both bruise, and thank God for that.

            That electric feeling is getting so strong, stabbing upwards, and Tupelo squeezes his eyes tight.

            “No,” Jesse rasps. “Look at me. Look at me.”

            So Tupelo does, and it’s more than he can bear.

            He comes with a shivering wail, whole body contracting. Jesse, it’s Jesse inside him, Jesse who made him do this, his Jesse, his man, forever, that’s what their love means, their love means forever—

            He’s fallen against Jesse without meaning to. Oh—so this is what boneless feels like.

            _There’s still him. Come on._

            “Lay me down,” Tupelo whispers as he struggles for breath. He runs limp fingers over Jesse’s face. “Finish.”

            Jesse lets him down onto the seat, curling his fingers into Tupelo’s hair. Tupelo watches him move, dazed and heart racing in his chest. His body has gone limp, able to do little more than shiver, so all he does is take Jesse in. The little details of him. The sweat along his hairline. The small nick of a scar on his left shoulder. How black his eyelashes are. It’s all unimportant and at the same time it means every damned thing.

            He sees something vulnerable gathering in Jesse’s face, and uses the last of his strength to wrap his arms around Jesse’s neck, pulling him down for a kiss. Jesse’s whole body jerks, and shudders, and it’s difficult to keep hold of his mouth. Somehow Tupelo manages, not minding the inelegance of it. He wants to be kissing Jesse when he comes, and it doesn’t have to be perfect.

            Except it is. Just like this.

            He takes Jesse’s weight as the other man almost collapses on him. Tupelo drops his arms on Jesse’s wet, bare back. He feels his arms rise and fall with Jesse’s gasping breaths.

            After a moment, Jesse murmurs, shifting, “Must be crushing you—“

            “It’s okay.”

            Jesse looks at him, a furrow appearing between his brows. “Sweetheart—hey.” He reaches up to Tupelo’s face. “Baby—baby, don’t cry.”

            Tupelo shakes his head, and says again, “It’s okay.” Jesse looks pained, but wraps him up close. Tupelo doesn’t notice if he’s crying or not. Instead, he just says repeatedly, “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

 

Jesse brings the cigarette to Tupelo’s mouth, and Tupelo has a long drag off it before pulling his lips away. He lets his head loll back against Jesse’s shoulder, looking out the back window at the blurred world, getting darker and darker as night comes on.

            They’re sitting back against the side of the truck. Tupelo’s still light enough to sit comfortably on Jesse’s lap. His legs lay on top of Jesse’s. Jesse has turned the heater on, and draped his shirt over Tupelo after he got the chills. Anyone else, Tupelo would have been embarrassed.

            But Jesse Custer is not just any man.

            Jesse exhales smoke, and taps some ash onto the floor. The window is cracked a hair so that they don’t suffocate, but no more. The storm shows no signs of letting up overnight, and even if they did want to go back to town, Tupelo doesn’t suppose the Chevelle would be able to in the mud.

            It’s Annville, though. No matter how hard the rain, it will all be sucked into the ground a few seconds after the rain stops. As soon as the weather passes, they’ll go.

            “Can I ask you to do something?”

            Tupelo turns his head. He’s tucked up under Jesse’s chin. “Of course.”

            “Will you promise to never leave me again?” Tupelo starts to reach a hand up, try to reassure him, but Jesse just captures it. He rubs his thumb over Tupelo’s palm, cigarette still held between index and middle finger. “If you ever think that you need to go, I need to know first. You almost killed me last time. I couldn’t live with it if you left me again. You tell me that you’ll talk to me, if things are so bad that you think they can’t be fixed, and I’ll do everything I possibly can to make it right. But don’t ever leave me again.”

            With a nod, Tupelo says, “I promise.” He pulls Jesse’s other arm down over his shoulder, getting more of a snug hold. “Jess?”

            “Yeah.”

            “If I’d told you…five years ago…what I was…what would you have done?”

            Jesse thinks about it, then admits, “I’d have tried to talk you out of it at first. I wouldn’t have understood. I don’t exactly get it now, but like I told you, I want to. Back then—I’d have been angry, probably. At first. But when I saw how upset you were—how bad you were hurting…it would have taken some time, honey, but I would have pulled my head out of my ass. Eventually. I don’t know how rocky it would have gotten, but I would have come around.”

            “I was scared, Jess.”

            “I know.”

            “It was never my intention to hurt you as badly as I did.”

            “I know that too.”

            “If I could make it right—“

            “You did. You came back to me.”

            Tupelo sighs, and retorts, “Yeah, after you spent years in Annville, trying to be your daddy, drinking yourself to death and miserable. And killing your gran’ma and her men. Well, that last bit I’m not too upset about, but the rest—I made you hurt in all kinds of ways for a long time. And Christ, I wish I could take it back. Only I can’t. So I’m sorry.”

            Jesse kisses his messy curls. “I know you are. But, Tupelo—I’m an adult. I’m dumb as a sack of hammers sometimes, but I’m capable of making my own decisions. I chose to come back here, knowing what a terrible idea it was. I did this to myself. Punished myself.”

            “For what?”

            “For not being a good enough man to keep you.”

            Sick, Tupelo says, “Jess—“

            “Shh. It’s okay. Tupelo—I’m not a good man. I’ve spent a large portion of my life trying to—live up to a promise I made as a little boy. You remember what you said to me that one time? There’s no good guys or bad guys, there’s just guys. And I think that’s what I am. I’m just a guy. Sometimes I lean one way, sometimes I lean the other. If I’m flattering myself, I’d like to think I have equal measure in me. When you left, though—I couldn’t….”

            “Couldn’t what?”

            “Anything.” Jesse nuzzles against his head. “Plato. The Symposium.”

Tupelo has to reach a moment to figure out what he means. When he does, he feels a wave of remorse. “Oh, my boy.”

            “You and I are two halves of the same soul. Struck apart by envious gods who could not stand the thought of our power. When you’re gone from me—I am less. I am not the person I’m meant to be.” Jesse chuckles softly. “Or I’m just soft. You seemed to be getting on just fine without yours truly.”

            “Don’t say that,” Tupelo frowns. He rubs the back of Jesse’s fingers, feeling the short, coarse hairs. “There’s a difference between wearing your hurt on the outside or just carrying it inside, pretending that it doesn’t matter. Lying to yourself.” He chews his lower lip. “Every night, for the past five years, I kissed the picture of you goodnight before bed. Had to get a new frame eventually, because I’d put a permanent mark on the glass. All the while pretending I was okay without you. I kept living, Jesse, but it wasn’t…it wasn’t what it was supposed to be.”

            Jesse gives him a hug around the shoulders, and Tupelo burrows into him. Jesse offers him the last puff off the cigarette, and Tupelo takes it. Then Jesse puts the cigarette out on his own tongue, easy as anything, before setting the butt on the ground.

            He links their hands together, and Tupelo listens to the thunder in the distance. “Jess? Would you do something for me?”

            “Yep.”

            “Don’t want to ask what first?”

            “Nope.”

            “Get something tattooed over the tulip, would you? It kind of hurts to look at it. And I don’t want to hurt when I look at you.”

            For a moment, Jesse doesn’t reply. “Make you a deal. I’ll get the tulip covered up if you do something about that goddamn star and horseshoe. If you want to talk about things that are hard to look at.”

            “I can do that. You want to take care of yours too?”

            “Not sure. Probably not. I don’t know—after all this time, I should want to just cut it off my skin, but—seems a part of me.” Jesse squeezes Tupelo, and mutters, “I wanted to throttle you in that jail cell when I saw what you’d done.”

            “That’s what a fool I am for you, babe.”

            Grumbling, Jesse says, “Well, no more of that. What do you think I should get over the flower, honey?” He traces one of the clouds on Tupelo’s chest. “Thunder cloud and some lightning, maybe?”

            “I wouldn’t be opposed.”

            Almost on cue, they lift their heads as an arc of electricity comes down in the distance. “Christ,” Jesse mutters. “I’d be worried if I gave a shit.”

            “You know you can’t go back there,” Tupelo says. “I mean—you made a bold romantic gesture, and I appreciate it, I really do, but you put a big fat bullseye on your back that says, ‘Kill me, bigots.’”

            “I did indeed. Guess it’s time to move on.”

            Nervous, Tupelo asks, “And do what?”

            He glances back at Jesse, who looks contemplative. “I don’t know. I’m thinking maybe my preaching days are done. God and I—haven’t been seeing eye to eye for a while. But I don’t know either that I’m willing to jump back into a life of crime.”

            “Don’t know that we could go back to Austin. I’ve pretty much burned my bridges there. And Dallas, well—we were already on thin ice there. Are you…are you real attached to the idea of staying in Texas?”

            Jesse’s silent for a few seconds. When he speaks, his voice is low. “O’Hare, I was willing to jerk you off, but I’ll be damned if you think I’ll live in Oregon—“

            Chuckling, Tupelo says, “No. No, honey. Somewhere warm, and the fewer Yankees the better. I’m not expecting you to be a completely different man. I think we’ve already shifted you on your axis enough, don’t you?” He rubs the ball of his foot over one of Jesse’s calves. “What about heading west for a little while? Just going until we hit the ocean? Not forever. But like that trip we took when we were fresh out of this place. Always said we’d go back to the ocean, and never did. I want to do that. See the Pacific, then find somewhere new. Wherever you want, I’m not real attached.”

            Jesse thinks on it, then says, “Well—Johnny Cash was born in Kingsland, Arkansas. But John Wayne was born in Iowa—“

            “You mean Marion Morrison—“

            “O’Hare, you watch yourself.” Tupelo giggles as Jesse threads his fingers through Tupelo’s curls. When he speaks again, Jesse sounds thoughtful. “But Bill Hicks—he was born out in Georgia. Valdosta, I think. Before he ended up in Texas as a kid. I think I’d like to see where he was born.”

            “You and your prophets,” Tupelo says without malice.

            “I hear a voice a-callin’,” Jesse murmurs in his ear.

            “Georgia, huh.” Tupelo ponders it, then shrugs. “Well, they haven’t passed any stupid laws yet saying I can’t use the bathroom, so I suppose we could give it a look.”

            “Anybody told you that you can’t do anything and I’d—“

            “I’d punch them in the face. You can stand aside until I require your assistance, Custer.”

            “Can’t I white knight you a little?”

            “No. You can be my black knight, though. Well, despite the fact that you’re pale as hell.”

            “Think you could find work out in Georgia?”

            “Yep,” Tupelo says easily.

            “Honest work?”

            “Jesse Custer, I have never filed taxes before, and I don’t intend to now.” Tupelo leans back, watching another line of white flash across the sky. “Only problem with Georgia—we’d have to deal with hurricanes, instead of twisters.”

            He smiles and closes his eyes as Jesse wraps him up tight. “Somehow, I think you could take it.” He kisses Tupelo’s temple, then whispers in his ear, “A distant thunder rumbles.”

            “Black rain come down,” Tupelo agrees, and settles in, safe in their little space, protected from the wind and rain and everything else the universe could throw at them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the world’s darkness can’t swallow up  
> A single spark  
> Such is my love for you  
> Such is my love  
> 'There is a Kingdom' The Boatman's Call (1997)
> 
> And 'I hear a voice a-callin'' is from Bill Hicks' 1992 show Revelations.


	12. The Beast it cometh, cometh down

Tupelo buttons up his jeans, and grins as Jesse grumbles over by the truck. “What?” he teases. “This weather doesn’t have you in a good mood?”

            Black shirt undone over his white undershirt, Jesse answers, “What doesn’t have me in a good mood is wearing the same pair of underwear two days in a row. It’s just wrong.”

            “Oh, suck it up.”

            “Yeah, says the man who has all his clothes with him.”

            “I _offered_ you clean underwear—“

            “It’s all got colours and patterns on them.”

            “Jesse, we are literally the only two who would know that you were wearing my lime green boxer briefs instead of basic black.”

            Arching a brow, Jesse retorts, “And would you _ever_ let me forget it?”

            Tupelo tries not to grin. He fails after about two seconds. “Not until the day we died.” He pulls his black Docs on, before hopping off the trunk. He takes the box of ammunition Jesse brought him, about the sweetest gift he could get, and goes to load his revolver.

            The wind lifts his hair from his forehead. The day is hot, and windy. Like he knew it would, the rain from last night’s storm has been sucked into the ground. Some of the cloud cover has broken through, and there’s some light off to the south.

            Only the clouds to the east are an uneasy shade of tan that makes Tulip eager to get on the road.

            Once he’s done reloading the Anaconda, he grabs a scarf from the backseat, folding it into a bandana and tying it around his forehead to keep his hair from falling forward. He bends briefly to check his appearance in one of the sideview mirrors. He’s opted for an old torn black t-shirt over jeans, and his hair is completely out of control. Honestly, he does not care in the least. To Tupelo, he looks like a man who’s loved. And well fucked too.

            “So?” Tupelo asks, shoving his hands in his pockets and crossing the distance to the truck. “What do we have to do?”

            Jesse shrugs, pulling his other boot on, and folding his black jeans leg over it. “As little as possible. Won’t be safe. I know it’s a foolish idea, but I’ve got to go back to the church, get my things.”

            “What about money? You got anything at the bank?”

            “Emily takes care of all that.” Tupelo gives him a hard look, and Jesse protests, “It’s church money! I’ve been too drunk to give a damn.”

            “Let me make one thing clear to you. You ride with me, I’ll love you, take care of you the best I can, but you’d better be able to take care of yourself too, or I’ll split more than your lip.”

            Jesse gives him a salute. “Understood.” He tilts his head, and smiles slightly. He crooks a finger at Tupelo.

            “What?”

            “You know what. Get that ass over here.”

            Tupelo smirks, walking the last few feet, and steps into Jesse’s arms. They kiss, and Tupelo messes up Jesse’s hair, which was already in a state to begin with. “We’ll get your clothes, get whatever mementoes you need, then we go.”

            “Agreed.” Pulling Tupelo up close between his legs, Jesse asks, “You don’t have anything else you want to do in Annville?”

            “Besides burn it to a cinder? No. You?”

            “Nope.”

            “What about all your parishioners?”

            “Can I burn _them_ to cinders?”

            Tupelo snorts, then sobers. “I feel bad about Eugene, though. He believes in you. Be an awful blow, you up and disappearing.”

            “You feel bad enough that you want me to stay and do a farewell tour?”

            “Fuck no. Get your ass in the truck, and let’s get the hell out of Dodge.” Tupelo gives him a peck on the cheek, patting his chest, then steps away.

            He gets a few feet away when Jesse says, “Hey Tupelo?”

            Tupelo looks back. “Yeah, Jess?”

            Jesse’s gazing towards the east, a bit concerned. “Can’t recall. Was it a flood or a tornado took out your namesake?”

            Tupelo follows his gaze. In the distance, he sees a funnel cloud dipping down out of those brown clouds. Then a moment later, another begins to form.

            “Both,” he replies, “only the former was some years before the latter, and nobody gave a shit because it was largely black folks who perished.”

            “Time to go,” Jesse says firmly.

            “Yes.” Then a thought practically smacks Tupelo across the face, and he roars at the sky. _Come on. Come the fuck on_!

            “What?” Jesse asks, looking like he’s about to leap out of the truck.

            Miserable, Tupelo says, “Walter. God damn it—the man’s never done anything for me, but—he’s the only family I’ve got, and—I’d not exactly feel great about it if a twister came through town and he was passed out on the lawn.”

            Jesse sighs, but nods. “Okay—we’ll go by Walter’s—“

            “Oh, fuck it. You go to the church. I’ll be all of ten minutes, I swear.”

            “You sure?” Jesse says, an almost devilish grin on his face. “Splitting up—I might not be able to look after myself.”

            With a roll of the eyes, Tupelo heads to the Chevelle. “Jess, I watched you single handedly take out at least five guys on Tuesday, and you snapped one’s arm like kindling. I’m not exactly wringing my hands at the thought of you in a fight.”

            “Stay out of trouble for ten minutes,” Jesse calls after him.

            Lifting an arm over his head, Tupelo replies, “Never.”

 

He’s about a mile from the town when the sirens go off.

            “Oh, shit,” Tupelo mutters, bending over the steering wheel to take a look at the sky. It’s gone a sudden, murderous black overhead. No rain, but he can see the few trees whipping to and fro. The houses he passes on the outskirts, the ones with flags, are about to lose them. The fabric’s flapping so hard in the abrupt gale that he watches as one American flag rips right off and flies up to the sky.

            He shakes his head, laying his foot on the gas. The streets are mostly empty. People are either at work or they’ve fled inside.

            “Walter, I’m gonna kill you. I’m gonna end your goddamn life, if I don’t get there and I find out you’re not already dead, I’m going to kill you.”

            This is where a momentary lapse in sense led a person. North Annville, tornado sirens going on, when he should be at the church with Jesse, either grabbing his things and getting on the road or hunkering down in the shelter with their guns.

            Tupelo swings around the corner, and has to veer up onto the sidewalk as a large shape goes skittering across in front of him. Lawn chair. Jesus fuck, how does he get himself involved in these things?

            He guns it down to the end of the street, and parks ontop of the curb, too in a rush to bother with niceties. Climbing out of the car, he puts a hand over his eyes and looks to the east. There’s two twisters in the distance, both fully formed. They’re sure as hell not as distant as before, though.

            _Shit_. At this rate, he might not meet up with Jesse in time.

            It’s been years since a tornado last touched the town, and the last time it did, it took all of four houses. But a long time ago, there was a town called Ratwater on this land.

            At least until a tornado scoured it from the earth.

            Tupelo runs around the front of the car, hissing when he sees that the front door of the house is open. No survival instinct whatsoever! It’s like he got the family’s entire share. It’s only by the grace of a non existent God that Walter’s lived this long.

            “Walter!” Tupelo hollers, barely hearing himself over the siren and the wind. He puts up a hand, spinning out of the way as a piece of brush goes flying by his face. “Walter, you in there!” He jumps up the steps, furious at Walter and himself for this situation. “Walter, where the hell are—“

            Tupelo stops dead in the doorway.

            The floor he spent so long sweeping and wiping clean has a foot wide trail of blood on it. It goes from the couch, all the way to the kitchen. Sticking out from the kitchen doorway are two feet, clad in black leather shoes.

            Tupelo knows it sure as hell isn’t Walter. He’s never even seen Walter wear shoes. He’s barely seen the man wear pants.

            He wishes badly that he’d brought his gun with him, but he’s wasting seconds, and he doesn’t have time to run to the car and back. Could be the twisters veer off, or even disappear before reaching town. Or they could come right through. Either way, he’s got somewhere to be.

            Swallowing, Tupelo calls, “Walter?” He walks carefully alongside the thick trail of blood. Whoever the hell has just died, he’s not laying where he fell. “Walter—it’s me.”

            Tupelo steps across the trail of blood, coming to stand in the kitchen doorway.

            A man is missing most of his head, but one piece that’s still there is where his left ear should be, and isn’t. He’s flat on his belly, in a puddle of blood.

            Calm as anything, Walter’s sitting at the kitchen table with a shotgun across his knee, and a can of beer in his hand, as the back doors and windows shake with the wind.

            “Son,” he asks, “you have any idea why this white boy came charging into my house?”

            “Imagine he was looking for me, sir.”

            Grunting, Walter has a sip of beer. “Well. Didn’t find you.”

            Stunned, Tupelo asks, “Walter—do you know who I am?”

            The old man makes a face, like Tupelo’s an idiot. “Sure I do. You’re Rose’s boy. You sure as hell look like her.”

            It’s the kindest thing Walter’s ever said to him. It’s the _most_ Walter’s ever said to him.

            Tupelo’s startled out of the moment. “Was he alone?”

            “He was not. That fella with him was making a real ruckus about me shooting this one, so I shot him too. He ran out of here.”

            “Fuck _me_ ,” Tupelo says, blood draining from his face.

            He starts to dart away, only to spin back. “Walter, there’s a hell of a twister coming. Get in the tub.”

            “Twister?” Walter lifts his head. “Oh. That’s what the sirens are for.” He starts pushing himself up. Before Tupelo can get any further, he holds out the shotgun. “You’ll need this.”

            Tupelo grimaces, and leaps over Brian’s corpse. Grabbing the shotgun, he opens it up and finds it fully loaded. Walter puts more shells in his hand, and Tupelo looks up at him. Jesus—he’s never noticed before that they have the same eyes. Walter’s  are considerably more bloodshot, but that can’t come as a surprise.

            “Old man,” Tupelo says in appreciation, “you should be conscious more often.” He leans up to kiss Walter on the cheek, then runs away.

            He knows _exactly_ where Davis is going.

 

The wind’s so strong that it rocks the car. Paying it no mind, Tupelo keeps the pedal all the way down to the floor. The Chevelle flies over the ground between Annville and the church.

            Far behind him, the twisters are moving sinuously around one another. They glance over the east road, before blowing through the first of the buildings they reach, wood and concrete bursting apart. They sweep into Annville easily as a hand moving through water.

            The air around Tupelo is filled with chunks of soil and grass. If he looked sideways, he would see the fences on the fields rattling. If he looked in the rearview mirror, he would see houses being shredded like paper. He would see years of wishing come true.

            All he sees is the road in front of him, the church coming closer.

            Tupelo slows long enough to make the turn onto the church road. There’s one second where he can see that the All Saints Congregational sign reads, ‘THE PREACHER DIES TODAY.’ He knows it’s not Davis who did that. It’s one of the town chickenshits who’d never have the balls to take Jesse on. It’s a bad coincidence, and his guts wrench even harder as he speeds up the driveway.

            There’s a single vehicle parked outside of the church. It’s not a red BMW this time. Tupelo doesn’t take the time to notice anything about it other than it’s black, shiny, and the driver’s side door was left open. Davis was in a hurry.

            Tupelo brakes, stuffing his Anaconda into the back of his pants, and scrambles out of the car. Almost immediately, he’s thrown back against the vehicle. For the first time since leaving town, he looks back.

            “Oh my God,” he gasps.

            The tornado is massive, or it’s two working their way across town. But they’ve reached the western edge of Annville, and Tupelo hears the moment the sirens stop, because the warning system has been ripped clear from the ground. He watches walls flying through the air, and then sees a van rise in the air, higher than any building in town, before being cast aside almost casually.

            He’s spent his whole life wishing twisters would take the town. Looks like his dream came true.

            “Impeccable fucking timing,” he says desperately, running around to the back seat on the right side, shotgun in hand.

            Yanking the door open as the wind rocks the car, Tupelo shoves aside his things frantically until he can reach the seat. He flips out a switchblade, and just tears into the interior, not having the time to go about it gently.

            He reaches inside the seat, hand fastening around the lockbox, and pulls it out.

            _Source of all my problems, and if Jesse’s hurt because of this, I won’t stop until I’ve murdered God on high._

            Tupelo drops the box to the ground. He doesn’t have time for lock picking either. Putting the shotgun up to his shoulder, he quickly lines up, then squeezes the trigger.

            The lock blows off.

            Dropping to his knees, Tupelo throws the box open.

            For a moment, he simply stares at what’s inside. Then he whispers, “What the _fuck_ —“

            He hears an explosion, and lifts his head. Power lines along the road are blowing. The tornado is taking the same route he did. Like it’s following the road directly to the church.

            Shaking his head, Tupelo grabs the bag out of the box, and shoves the little piece of paper into his back pocket. He kicks the door shut, and advances on the church, withdrawing his gun.

            “You mad at me?” he asks the sky. “This some kind of sick joke?”

            He sees a splash of blood on the side of the building. It smears towards the back.

            Following it, Tupelo says, “Guess what, you son of a bitch. I ain’t playing. You be mad and throw tantrums all you please. I’ve come too far to lose him now, just because you’re throwing a hissy fit, you big _baby_.”

            He wraps the end of the clear plastic bag in his left hand, keeping a firm hand on the pistol with his right. The wind is murderous, dirt and pebbles cutting across his face. He watches the trees out back of the church bend with the storm’s fury.

            He doesn’t care. That’s not what’s worrying him.

            Tupelo swings around the back of the church. The door’s closed, and the curtains have been drawn over the broken out window. Only there’s blood all over the door.

            Tupelo does not even entertain the idea that Jesse could be dead. If it’s true, he’ll only need two bullets. One for Davis, and one for himself.

            Taking a deep breath, Tupelo reaches out, and pushes the door open.

            He steps quickly inside, aiming his gun.

            His breath catches in his throat.

            It’s not that Davis has a gun to Jesse’s head. It’s not that Jesse’s bleeding, or that his hands are cuffed behind the chair he’s sitting on. It’s not that he’s barely conscious, face bruising something terrible.

            No. It’s not any of those things.

            It’s that he’s missing an eye.

            From behind Jesse, hunkered down with the man as a shield, Davis says, “I’d put that gun down. I’m gonna kill you. I’m gonna make you suffer, hard as I can. But put the gun down, and I’ll only kill you and not him.”

            Jesse lifts his head slightly, mumbling, “What’s—“ Davis pushes the muzzle up against the back of his head, and Jesse goes still.

            He raises his single eye, and Tupelo stares at him. He can’t even move. It looks like Davis might have just _torn_ it out.

            And still, Jesse gives him the faintest of smiles. As if a gun to his head, the wrath of God coming down on them all, and somehow they’ve seen tougher situations.

            Tupelo lifts his left hand. When Davis sees what he has, he freezes.

            “How bad do you want this?” Tupelo says, just above the wind.

            “You’ll give that to me,” Davis says furiously. “All you’ve taken from me—all you’ve _done_ —“

            “Take the gun off him and we’ll talk.”

            “You’ve got three seconds or I kill him—“

            Tupelo throws the gun to the floor and bolts out of the house.

            He runs about forty feet, directly into the wind. For a second, he can hardly orient himself. The gale spins him around. The ground seems to be lifting, layers of earth lifting up, peeling away before the oncoming storm. The air is filling with dust and debris.

            The ground’s shaking. It’s _rumbling_.

            “Hey!”

            Tupelo turns, finding Davis through the dust. A branch flies by, cutting Tupelo’s cheek open, and he barely notices. Davis has his gun pointed at him, looking frantic. It’s loud, so loud Tupelo can barely hear, but he’s about eighty percent sure he didn’t hear a gunshot.

            But not a hundred percent.

            “You give that to me!” Davis screams above the wind. “You come back here and give that to me!”

            Tupelo lifts the bag. “What are you gonna do?” he screams back. “Shoot me? What happens if you do?”

            “You fucking bitch—give that to me! Give it back!”

            Fury rising in him like the storm, Tupelo feels his insides go hot with rage. In that moment, it feels like the storm is an extension of himself.

            “You hurt my man!” he says above the wind. “You’d have killed him! And what for? This?” He holds the bag higher, but Davis doesn’t dare shoot him. “Your man’s dead—you brought him back here to be killed, and you would have killed me, killed my man! And for _this_!”

            The tornados dance across the road, line after line snapping before them. Lightning bursts outwards, and the ground shakes under them so hard that Tupelo barely keeps to his feet.

            Except he does, because he’s so livid that no power in the universe could knock him to his knees.

            This man would have killed Jesse.

            And that won’t stand.

            “You want it?” Tupelo hollers. “ _Have it._ ”

            He opens it, and lets the ashes spill out. The wind catches them, spreading them into the ether instantaneously.

            Davis howls, his knees giving way slightly. Tupelo doesn’t know what those remains mean to him, nor does he care. All he knows is that this will hurt him. And this son of a bitch hurt Jesse. Tupelo wants him to fucking _suffer_.

            Tupelo stands in the wind and dust storm, holding his ground as Davis says in disbelief, “Do you know what you did?! Do you know what you just fucking did?!”

            “I cut out your heart,” Tupelo answers, hands making fists, leaning into the wind. “And now I’ll fucking _feast_ on it.”

            He glares at Davis through the wind. He sees the moment that Davis finally just switches over, raising his gun.

            Tupelo inhales, and makes his peace.

            The shot rings out, and he watches Davis jerk. The man stands a moment, staring at Tupelo, arm still outstretched. Tupelo gazes at him impassively, as blood starts spilling from the hole blown through his forehead.

            His knees crumple, and he falls face first onto the dirt.

            Slumping, Jesse lowers Tupelo’s gun. His left hand’s bloodied, but besides that and the missing goddamn _eye_ , he could be worse.

            Tupelo runs through the storm to him, Jesse coming out to meet him.

            They grab hands, and without even having to say it, start running for the shelter out front of the church.

            “What the _fuck_ took you so long?” Tupelo yells over the wind.

            “You know I had to break my thumb to get out of those cuffs,” Jesse retorts, the cuffs in question still hanging off his right wrist. “That and I lost an eye!” He gets sight of the tornado and his hand spasms around Tupelo’s. “Fucking Christ!”

            It’s nearly reached the gate of the church. “RUN!” Tupelo screams.

            He tries to push Jesse in front of him, knowing that Jesse can run faster, but Jesse won’t let go of his hand. “End of the world!” Jesse shouts.

            “Don’t you dare!”

            The tornado actually _turns_. It turns and makes for the church.

            Jesse’s so dumbstruck he actually slows a second. “God.”

            “MOVE!” Tupelo shrieks, yanking him down the hill towards the shelter.

            Right now they’re running in the direction of the tornado, but they both know the shelter will be more stable than the church ever could be. They’re close—they’re so fucking _close_ —

            Something comes flying at them like a missile, and Tupelo shoves Jesse out of the way. He’s thrown back as the thing slices through his arm. Screaming with pain, Tupelo hits the ground. Rolling over, for a second he can see that it was the sign. It’s just impaled itself in the side of the church.

            Then he’s yanked up, running before he even knows what’s happening.

            “End of the world!” he screams.

            Jesse swings him around, over the top of the shelter. Tupelo slams through the door, rolling onto the cold, still ground. He’s never been so happy to kiss dirt.

            Then he hears Jesse yelp.

            He’s grabbed onto the door, but he’s being lifted clear off his feet.

            Not even thinking about it, Tupelo lunges forward. He grabs onto that big belt buckle, that ridiculous symbol of masculinity he’s made fun of all these years, and puts one foot to the side of the door. With every ounce of strength he possesses, he hauls Jesse inside the storm shelter.

            They tumble inside, ontop of one another. Before anything else can happen, they’ve both turned, working together to shut the door. They have to work with shoulder and back, but they get it shut, and Tupelo slams the heavy wooden plank into place, locking it as best they’re able.

            Then they’re grabbing onto one another in the dark, scrambling as far back into the hole as possible.

            “Your face,” Tupelo gasps, “your face, oh God, your eye, your face—“

            “Are you okay? You’re bleeding, I can feel you bleeding, are you—“

            Something heavy smashes against the door, hard enough that they hear it creak. Both of them freeze, looking to see if it’ll give way. The storm is screaming overhead, so loud that Tupelo can hardly hear anything else.

            He’s scared. He’s suddenly scared.

            Wrapping his arms around Jesse’s neck, he feels how tightly Jesse holds him back, and understands that he’s scared too.

            Turning his head, Tupelo hollers into Jesse’s ear, “ _Until the end of the world_!”

            He feels Jesse nod into his shoulder, and faintly, even though he knows Jesse is yelling, he hears, “ _Until the end of the world._ ”

            Tupelo buries his face in Jesse’s shoulder, and breathes him in, and if this is the end, because someday the end must come, he knows there is no place he would rather be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Distant thunder rumble  
> Rumble hungry like the Beast  
> The Beast it cometh, cometh down  
> Tupelo bound  
> The Beast it cometh, Tupelo bound  
> 'Tupelo' The Firstborn is Dead (1985)


	13. With my knife in my jeans and the rain on the shield

It’s not the end. Of course it’s not. Because maybe Tupelo’s on a number of non-existent deities’ shit lists, but he is not going to die in _Annville_ of all places.

            When they emerge from the shelter, waiting until they can’t hear the wind screeching like a banshee, they come back to a world that has been uprooted. The first thing Jesse looks at is the church; the first thing Tupelo looks at is Jesse.

            There’s no doubt his left eye is gone. It’s been gouged out, blood all down the side of Jesse’s face. Surprisingly, he’s not taking it that badly.

            “Huh,” he says, and Tupelo follows his gaze.

            Putting his hands on his hips, Tupelo echoes, “Well, maybe there is a God.”

            The church has been completely and utterly destroyed. It’s been flattened, a hole in the sky where the building stood for decades. The trees around it have gone, tossed aside. The church van is upside down, all the windows broken out. It’s like the land has been scraped clean.

            All save for two things: Jesse’s truck, and Tupelo’s car. They don’t look to even have a scratch.

            “Someone up there’s a Ford fan,” Jesse says.

            “Someone downstairs loves Chevy.” Tupelo crosses his arms, wincing at the piercing ache down the left one. “Suppose you don’t have any lingering doubts about staying, rebuilding, do you?”

            “Tempting,” Jesse says flatly. He glances back over his shoulder, and balks. “Then again, there’s that.”

            They both turn and look across the fields to Annville. Or rather, what’s left. The twisters went straight through the town. Even from this distance, it’s possible to see the path of destruction. Tupelo’s willing to bet all of Main Street is nothing more than splinters.

            He’s a little mollified to see that north Annville looks relatively unscathed. It’s about the first time in history that God hasn’t taken out his anger on poor black folks when he’s having a meteorological fit.

            Tupelo shakes his head. “I spent my whole life wishing just this thing would happen. That a tornado would come down and wipe that shitty little town clear off the map. Now it’s happened, and….”

            “And what?”

            He hunches his shoulders, scrunching up his face. “Now my arm’s too sore and my mouth’s too full of sand for me to really enjoy it.”

            Jesse stares at him a moment, then starts to chuckle. He tries to stop, dropping his head, covering his hand with his mouth, but he can’t quite get a hold on it. “There’s people dead down there,” he says, not really to Tupelo, but more as a reminder to himself.

            “You mean those racist, sinning, child beating simpletons you were raving about yesterday?”

            “Yeah. But that’s most people.”

            “No it ain’t, Jesse. That’s only here.” Tupelo shrugs. “Okay, yeah, and other places, but to a lesser extent. This place—I’ve got no problem in saying it had it coming.”

            “Judge not, lest—“

            “I’ve been judged plenty. Give me a rock, and I’ll throw it at the rubble.” Tupelo blows out a breath. “Well, that’s going to be a disaster.”

            “I—think it may count as a disaster already. In the technical sense.”

            Tupelo looks up at him. “You’re awfully sunny for a man that just lost an eye.”

            “Suppose I am.”

            Cringing, Tupelo reaches up, putting a hand to the right side of Jesse’s face. “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry.”

            Jesse shrugs. He plucks the bandana from Tupelo’s head, unfolding it, and starts wiping off Tupelo’s face. “Could have been worse.”

            “Town’s destroyed. Church is leveled. You lost an eye.”

            “We could be dead.”

            “Yeah, but—now I’ll have to dump you. I loved you when you were pretty, but I just don’t see myself dating a pirate.” Snorting, Jesse puts a hand on Tupelo’s shoulder, steadying himself a little. He seems okay, but Tupelo figures he must be in shock, at least a touch. Tupelo says, “I brought this on you.”

            “Sweetheart, I was just kidding when I said you brought the rain. I mean—admittedly, it’s a hell of a coincidence that it started the night you came, and the church was blown down the day we were fixing to leave, but coincidence is all it is.”

            “No, Jess—I brought those men here. You’re gonna be half blind the rest of your life. All because I fucked up.”

            “I believe I was the one who got cocky and made a joke about splitting up.”

            Miserable, Tupelo says, “I brought them here.”

            Jesse takes a deep breath, then furrows his brows. He stops almost immediately, muttering, “Ow. That kinda hurt.” Before Tupelo can speak, Jesse squeezes his shoulder. “Think about it this way. If you hadn’t come through town? Where would I have been when those twisters hit?”

            “I don’t know. What do you do on Friday afternoons usually?”

            Easily, Jesse says, “I get black out drunk in the kitchen trying to write my stupid sermon.” Jesse grazes Tupelo’s jaw with his thumb. “So if you hadn’t shown up, I’d be a dead man. And dead is a hell of a lot worse than half blind.” Tupelo frowns, still not completely convinced. Jesse says, “I still got one good eye to ogle you with—“

            “Okay, shut up, fine, I’m convinced.” Tupelo wraps his arm through Jesse’s, and they swing around to look at the remains of the church.

            After a moment, Jesse says, “Hell of a thing.”

            “I’ll say. That son of a bitch twister turned at the gate.”

            “It’s a miracle.”

            Looking up at him in disbelief, Tupelo says, “Some manner of fucked up miracle.”

            “No, I mean in an ‘ain’t life funny’ kind of way. Not a ‘God works in mysterious ways’ manner. You’ll admit, it does almost seem like a divine hand was at work. You’re okay. I’m okay.” Jesse pauses. “My truck’s okay.” Tupelo laughs shortly, dropping his head on Jesse’s shoulder. “And this hateful place that I have loathed my entire life is struck down.”

            “Cemetery’s tore up.”

            Jesse sighs. “That’s less great.”

            “Got a man with a bullet in his head on the property somewhere.”

            “Even less great.”

            “No kidding. I think it’s time we skipped town, find a hospital. Sound good?”

            After another look around, Jesse nods. “Yeah, I could get behind that.”

            “Well, this leaves us with a conundrum. Doesn’t make much sense to have the two vehicles. Seems a shame to leave the truck, though, seeing as an act of God let it be.”

            He realizes Jesse is looking at him. “Tupelo.”

            “Yeah, Jess.”

            Jesse points at his bloody face and the empty eye socket. “I don’t think I should be behind a wheel. Do you?”

            Cringing, Tupelo says, “Nope. Good call.” He pats Jesse on the back, and starts walking up the hill. “Chevelle it is. You want to get anything before we go? See if there’s anything salvageable?”

            Giving it a thought, Jesse replies, “Should probably grab my gun from the truck.”

            “Good call. Hey. Nice shooting with one eye, by the way.”

            “I’m pretty impressed myself,” Jesse says, slipping his hands in his pockets. “My depth perception’s for shit right now. Lucky I didn’t hit you.”

            Tupelo doesn’t believe it for a second. “Be quicker next time, though. This was a little close for comfort.”

            “I think we had it under control.”

            They glance at each other, and smile crookedly.

           

Tupelo takes the road around the north of the town. He doesn’t want to think about what the road to the west looks like right now. Best to take the road east, then get on the one back down to the 10, get Jesse to the hospital in Van Horn to get his eye looked at.

            Right now Jesse’s got gauze over his eye from the first aid kit that Tupelo keeps in the glove box. He’s already talking about wearing an eye patch. Black, of course.

            Tupelo keeps shaking his head and saying, “Ain’t dating a pirate.”

            There’s strange debris that litters the road. Dead cow. A child’s bicycle. Half the sign from the Dairy Queen. Tupelo drives around it slow and steady.

            “Hope Cassidy’s all right,” Jesse says.

            “Toadvine wasn’t in the path,” Tupelo replies. “If he stayed there, he’ll be fine. Trust me, Cassidy seems the type to hole up with whores until he’s dislodged with a crowbar. Or dynamite.” He glances over. Jesse looks dubious. Tupelo’s expression goes hard. “Jesse Custer, look at my face. If you think I’m going to stop this vehicle so we can check on some incoherent Irishman who’s spent the last several days pestering me to fuck him, you have another thing coming.”

            “He did not.”

            “Oh, you are blind—“ Tupelo clamps his mouth shut. “Uh—poor choice of words.”

            But Jesse just laughs.

            The sky’s a strange shade of yellow above them. Tupelo is eager to get as far from this place as possible. It’s unlikely that another tornado will hit, but he’s had his fill of Annville. It is definitely time to be moving on.

            “Hey,” Jesse says. “Is that Eugene?”

            Tupelo lifts his head.

            The boy is sitting on a park bench. There’s no reason the bench should be there. It’s the edge of town, and the bench is crooked on someone’s lawn. But there’s Eugene, hair a mess, shirt untucked, sitting on it patiently.

            Unable to help himself, Tupelo slows the car, and parks. “Roll down the window.”

            “Oh, we’re not stopping for my friend, but we’re stopping for—“

            “I’ll take out your other eye,” Tupelo threatens.

            “How quickly they turn,” Jesse murmurs, rolling down the window.

            Tupelo leans across the car, and hollers, “Hey, Eugene! You okay?”

            The boy raises his head. Calmly, he says, “Hey, Misser Tup’lo. Hey Pweacher.” He looks concerned, and gets up. “Pweacher, are you ‘kay?”

            “Oh yeah,” Jesse says as Eugene walks over to the car. “Just a scratch.”

            “Don’ look like—a scratch.”

            “He’s fine,” Tupelo says. “Are you okay, honey? You get hurt?”

            “Oh no.” He looks around, a little confused. “I was—I was insigh, an’ I had my headphonesh on—an’ then I was flying. And then I was here. I think I’m—just gonna sit. A little while.”

            Jesse and Tupelo glance at each other, then Tupelo says, “Eugene, you want to get in the car? Come to the hospital with us?”

            Eugene shakes his head. “No. No, I’m gon’ wait for my dad. Is the turch okay?”

            Tupelo grimaces, unwilling to field that one. Jesse says gently, “I’m afraid it is not, Eugene.”

            Eugene looks horrified. “What? But why woul—why would God—“

            Jesse puts his arm over the side of the window, and reassures Eugene, “He has his reasons. They are just unknowable to us. Perhaps they seem—strange, or cruel, or downright unfathomable. But that is because we are but mortal men, and he is the almighty. He has a plan. Rest assured of that, Eugene. Rest assured.”

            The boy calms down, smiling around the eyes. “Okay. Good. Good.” He looks at the two of them, and starts frowning again. “You’re coming back, t’ough. Right?”

            “I think not.”

            “But—who will be—the P’eacher?”

            With a little smile, Jesse says, “Someday you will, Eugene.” He reaches out a hand.

            After a second, Eugene shakes it. He looks positively lit up. Like it’s the first time he’s had hope in years.

            When he withdraws his hand, he says, “I be’er go. There’s my dad.”

            Tupelo looks into the rear-view. Sheriff Root has just pulled up in his squad car. Leaping out, faster than Tupelo would have thought the man capable, Root yells in relief, “Eugene!”

            “We’d best be going,” Tupelo says quickly. “You take care, Eugene.”

            “Bye,” Eugene says with a wave, stepping back.

            “God bless,” Jesse adds, and Tupelo lays on the gas.

           

They’re about two minutes out of town, nothing but silence, before Tupelo finally asks with an arched brow, “We are but mortal men?”

            Sighing, Jesse groans, “Do you know how hard that pretty boy from Austin tased me when I opened that door? I’m lucky I remember my own name. Besides, that kid was just picked up and flung across town. I don’t think he needed to hear ‘there’s probably no God, your belief system is ridiculous, gaze upon the carnage around you, and ponder the fragility of your mortality.’”

            “All right,” Tupelo says, raising his hands. “Fair enough.” He glances at Jesse. “He tased you, baby?”

            “I was so eager to get out of there, I didn’t even hear him come in the house. Stupid.”

            “It’s okay. You got him.” Tupelo reaches over, stroking his arm a few times. “Hey, you’ll never guess what happened to the other one.”

            “Wicked witch get him?”

            “Better. Walter.”

            Jesse exclaims, “The hell you say.”

            Shaking his head, Tupelo says, “I got in there and Walter’d blown his head clear off.”

            “ _Jesus_ ,” Jesse says in dismay. “Walter kills one of them, and I get tased by the other. _Walter_.”

            “Jess, you shot the other one through the head. It all ended up square. And we’re leaving the town and church a crater behind us, so frankly, I think we won.”

            Shaking his head, not so easily assuaged, Jesse turns slightly in his seat. “Did I see what I thought I saw? What this whole thing was about?”

            “Ashes,” Tupelo nods, in disbelief. “All this thieving and shooting and killing, all over some ashes. If there was ever a better metaphor, I will be amazed. Oh!” He wriggles, pulling the slip of paper from the back of his pants. “This was in the box.” He opens it up, glancing between it and the road. The words are unintelligible to him. “Shit. I don’t recognize the language. You got anything?” He passes it to Jesse, who holds it up to his remaining eye.

            “It’s Latin,” Jesse says, surprised.

            “Good grief.”

            “It says….”

            Tupelo waits, then glances over. “It says what?”

            Jesse’s staring at the paper, mouth softly agape. “Here lie the mortal remains of our lord and savior.”

            After a few seconds, Tupelo reaches over and snatches it from his hands. “To hell with this,” he says. He opens his door a crack and tosses the paper out onto the road, before slamming the door shut. Shaking his head, Tupelo rolls his eyes. “How do I keep getting mixed up with you crazy religious types? It’s like you’ve got my scent or something.”

            “This has been a very strange day,” Jesse says quietly.

            Tupelo sighs, and agrees, “Yes. Yes indeed. But Jesse? Before you go getting yourself worked up and spinning yourself in circles, let me tell you something I know for absolutely certain. If those were the ashes of _anyone’s_ lord and savior, they would not be in Texas, for one thing. They would not have been stored under the bed of a man who wore jeans so tight I could see the wrinkles on his testicles. Maybe those dumbasses believed they had the real thing, or maybe they thought they had something else. Maybe your Latin’s just terrible. One thing I know for sure—God is not in West Texas. In any way shape or form. You don’t believe that? Go back and have a look at that church.”

            “Hypothetical.”

            “Sure.”

            “If they had been the ashes of Jesus Christ, would you still have thrown them into the wind?”

            “Dust to dust,” Tupelo says grimly, “and ashes to ashes. That motherfucker _hurt_ you. I only wish I’d shot him myself. I wish I’d burned him alive, so I could piss on _his_ ashes.”

            “You are one devoted son of a bitch, you know that?”

            “I’d say the same for you. How’s your thumb?”

            “Hurts less than the eye. Or lack thereof.”

            “Well, Van Horn’s not too far. Get ourselves fixed up, skip out on the hospital bills, and I figure we can be by the Pacific come Monday, if we drive fast enough.” Tupelo chews on the side of his mouth. “We’ll have to get you some clothes.”

            “Tupelo?”

            “Yeah, Jess.”

            “The end of the world came, and you were there.”

            He looks over, and smiles a little. “Of course I was. And of course you were.”

            Jesse smiles back, and holds out his hand. Tupelo takes it, careful not to touch his broken thumb. “Into the setting sun,” Jesse murmurs.

            “Into the setting sun,” Tupelo echoes.

            One hand on the wheel, he turns south, and they drive away from Annville for good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With my knife in my jeans and the rain on the shield  
> I sang a song for the glory of the beauty of you, waiting for me  
> '(I'll Love You) Till the End of the World' Loverman (1994)
> 
> And that's that. How perfect is it that Nick Cave actually has a song called 'Till the End of the World'? It even has the lines 'I’ll love you till the end of the world/With your eyes black as coal /And your long dark curls.'  
> I know that usually when I finish a story I have another one lined up to start uploading in a few days, but this time I don't. Time for a break--it's been a 300 000+ word summer, and I'm out of juice, finding it hard to focus on one story like usual. So I will see you again, just not for a while.  
> All my thanks to you intrepid few who came along with me on this story. I love it to death, and while it may not be mighty in hit counts, I'm happy to share my contribution to this weird universe with you. Thank you for reading, and to those of you who commented, you are stars.  
> Stay weird, stay lovely, and remember that Nick Cave always has a song for whatever ails you.


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